Perspective
by Got Tea
Summary: When disaster strikes, Boyd and Grace finds themselves looking elsewhere for a little perspective. Seventh story in the Communication Series. Follows Listening.
1. Chapter 1

**This fic is part seven in the Communication Series, following Listening, which, coincidentally, was posted exactly a year ago today.**

 **Many, many thanks to Joodiff for taking on the epic task of beta-ing this monster, and to Joodiff, missDuncan and Gemenied for pestering and encouraging me to actually finish it. It's been a long slog, admittedly, but an enjoyable one.**

 **Please note: the first chapter is significantly abbreviated. The full version, for those who wish to read it, can be found on AO3.**

 **And finally, many warm and happy birthday wishes to Gemenied - I hope it lives up to expectations. Hugs :) xx**

* * *

 **Perspective**

 **…**

 **Part One**

There are children in the park, playing in the chilly, clear air that is a welcome respite from the days of heavy rain that have characterised much of the last week or so. That rain was replaced by a smattering of snow two nights ago, and though it has since frozen there is still enough lying around to make snowballs and small snowmen. Laughter permeates the air, rising and falling as games are played and the long count for hide-and-seek begins, the warning sending small bodies scurrying for cover. He still remembers being part of it all; how the last few chances for daytime fun were seized with the wholehearted enthusiasm of unjaded youth before the school bell called them all back inside for weeks on end.

In general, as he's aged, he has become more inclined to think that school is the best place for them, corralling their rambunctious energy out his way as he goes about his job and daily life, but today, as he walks at a sedate but steady pace along the perimeter pathway, Boyd watches, his attention caught by their innocent, joyful play, his mood calm, content and almost entirely relaxed. There are flickers of negativity – mild panic and worry mostly – but on the whole he is almost at peace, lost in the moment.

Happy.

Beside him Grace is holding onto his arm, a warm, sunny smile on her face as she breathes in the cold winter air and watches the scene around them. She looks… alive. It's the best way he can think to describe her expression, the soft glow of colour that has slowly returned to her skin in the last few days, the way she moves with much more ease and surety than she has in a long time.

Rest and relaxation, he muses, have done her a power of good. She seems so much healthier, appears to have considerably more energy, too. It's been a wonderful few days. Lazily spending time together around the house as she recovered from the infection that saw her hospitalised again over Christmas. Watching her improve a little bit more every day as her appetite returned and she managed to eat more and more, building up strength and stamina to the point that this afternoon, when she stood by the door begging him to take a little walk around the park, the idea didn't automatically fill him with fear and dread.

She will need a nap when they get home, he's sure of it, but it will not last all afternoon, and she'll wake feeling mostly rested and refreshed. It's hard to reconcile the happy woman wandering along beside him now with the visions and memories he has of her so ill and weak just a matter of days ago.

He feels a slight increase in pressure on his arm, glances down and sees how she is leaning just a little more of her weight on him. "Need a break?" he asks quietly, spotting a clear, dry-looking bench a hundred yards or so ahead of them.

"Please," she murmurs, fingers squeezing his in gratitude. "Just a few minutes."

They walk in silence, and it is calm and companionable, even as their pace slows to closer to a meander than a gentle walk, but none of it bothers him in the slightest. It's simply so wonderful to see her outside and enjoying herself that for him, nothing can dampen the moment.

They pause, and she sits, slowly and carefully. He settles himself beside her, smiles when she leans into him and rests her head briefly on his shoulder in quiet gratitude for his understanding. Boyd takes her gloved hand in his, lacing their fingers. When she straightens up he turns to gaze at her, at the rosy hue in her cheeks the cold has brought, at the happiness in her eyes, the way the scarf wrapped around her head is slightly askew.

"What?" she asks, and he realises he's been sitting staring at her for longer than he thought.

Shaking his head, he leans down and brushes his lips gently over hers. "Nothing," he replies honestly, tucking an arm around her as they relax back on the bench, sighing happily as she rests against him again, her weight a comforting reassurance at his side.

"You sure?"

He relents as she rests a hand on his knee, and returns to watching the children playing. "You look good."

She starts a little in surprise, he can feel it. "Peter," she begins, but he interrupts her.

"No, hear me out. You do – you look so much better, so much more… alive… healthy…" He doesn't know how to finish what he's trying to tell her, but she seems to understand. Squeezes his fingers where their hands are joined in response.

"I _feel_ a lot better," she finally tells him. "As if I'm really beginning to emerge on the other side of this nightmare."

Boyd knows exactly what she means. Feels the same way. Is actually looking forward to the appointment tomorrow morning that he hopes will finally confirm what they have fought for and been working towards for months now.

Remission.

It's only one word, but it is so, so significant. And it means so much to both of them. Represents their entire future.

There are footsteps approaching, and as Grace falls silent Boyd wants to growl at the person intruding on their private moment, but then a familiar voice asks, "Peter?"

He looks up, startled, for he knows that tone. Sees his brother standing there wrapped in a thick winter coat and a stripy blue and grey scarf that looks suspiciously new, as though it might perhaps have been gifted to him over the holidays by one of his children or grandchildren.

"Andrew," he replies, and though his voice is steady, his heart is suddenly pounding hard in his chest. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Picking Billy up from a friend's house, but I arrived too early. Figured I'd take a walk instead of waiting in the car. May I?" The other man indicates the space on the bench beside Grace.

He wants to say no, wants to put this off for longer. Wants to keep the intimacy of their first gentle walk in the park just for themselves, but he can't.

Reluctantly, Boyd nods, but doesn't relinquish his hold on the woman resting back against him. He's angry, he realises, when the thudding rhythm beneath his ribcage doesn't ease. Angry and frustrated, but mostly nervous, and that… is not a nice feeling.

"Grace," he tells her, still outwardly calm, "this is my older brother, Andrew. Andrew, this is Grace, my partner."

As the words leave his lips it dawns on him that it's the first time he's consciously introduced her as such. It feels good. Feels right.

"It's nice to meet you," says Grace politely, as she holds out a hand to Andrew. "I've heard plenty about you, and your childhood escapades. It's good to put a face to the name."

Andrew looks amused, thinks Boyd, but also a touch curious.

"It's nice to meet you, too," he tells Grace. "I wish I could say the same, but my little brother is very guarded about his life these days."

Boyd bristles slightly, is about to bite back at the other man when he feels the reassuring weight of her palm against his as she presses against his hand with her own, soothing him.

"We both are," she tells Andrew quietly. "We work together, and our relationship would create… problems, if people knew about it. It's been much easier to keep it quiet, to have the time just for us. Particularly since I haven't been at all well – it's taken a lot of adjusting, and we needed that time."

So calm, Boyd observes. So easy and polite in her explanation, but so firm at the same time. No room for argument. He sees the same thoughts in his brother's face, and hides a smile.

"Of course," agrees Andrew. "How are you feeling now? Any better?"

"I'm getting stronger, but it's taking time."

"We're hoping to get the all clear soon," adds Boyd, holding his brother's gaze, pointedly telling him that the subject is off limits.

Andrew is astute, he always has been, and he gets the message. "Good luck," he replies easily. "I hope it goes well."

"Thank you," murmurs Grace. "So do I."

They spend a few more minutes chatting, sharing news of recent days – mainly the large and exuberant gathering of the majority of the Boyd clan on Christmas Day – and then Boyd tactfully brings it all to an end. She won't say anything, he knows, but Grace is beginning to shiver in his arms, and that's his cue to get her moving again, and then indoors as soon as possible.

They say their goodbyes, and then, as Andrew stands, Boyd carefully helps Grace to her feet, holding on to her to make sure she's stable and balanced. She smiles up at him, arm tucked through his, and though she seems to be taking some strength from him, she's steady and her smile is bright.

Andrew clasps his hand warmly. "Good to see you, mate," he says. "Call me later, when you have time." He leans down and kisses Grace on the cheek. "It's nice to have met you, Grace. When you're feeling better you two should both come over for dinner – we'll have a nice evening and it'll be a chance to get to know each other."

"Thank you," she says sincerely, "I'd like that."

"Well then, until next time." He nods to them both and strolls off.

Boyd watches his brother leave, an odd feeling in his chest.

"He seems very nice," Grace comments, smiling up at him. Boyd nods slowly, thoughtfully, as he looks down at her.

"I love you," he suddenly tells her, the words coming from nowhere as he draws her closer, hugging her warmly, tightly. It's an inexplicable moment, one he most definitely can't find the words for, but somehow, improbably, she seems to understand. Rests her head on his chest and winds her arms around his waist, relaxing against him. And it's perfect. Exactly what he needs.

…

He was hoping to have a quiet lunch in a little café somewhere, but she's a little too tired for that, so they head home and have a cheery conversation over sandwiches. Afterwards, Grace kisses him gently, and then heads upstairs for a nap. Watching her go, Boyd feels a tug of warmth in his chest, because although she definitely needs the snooze, she doesn't look as though she's on the brink of completely collapsing into slumber for hours and hours on end. Freyja, who has been sprawled on the back of the sofa batting the spiky strands of his hair for the last half an hour or so, rockets off the furniture and scrambles up the stairs after her, desperate for any chance to nap on the bed.

Wondering what to do, he heads for the kitchen with the empty plates, leaving them by the sink and refilling his glass of water. Looking out at the uninspiring scene of the winter ravaged garden, he realises he's smiling. It's hope, he recognises. Hope.

They are getting somewhere. _She_ is getting somewhere, and that is… incredible.

Maybe this is really it. Maybe they are finally getting that stroke of luck they are so long overdue, and in need of. Maybe it's finally _their_ time.

Closing his eyes he concentrates; lets his mind wander back over the last few days. Thinks of discovering the heat of her skin under his palms, her sighs and murmurs as he explored her body, the intense pleasure burning through his nerves as she did the same.

Behind him the tumble dryer beeps and then falls silent, its cycle over. Banal reality pulling him out of vivid daydreams.

Warm and fluffy bath towels, quickly folded, and a mountain of socks that for once can easily be matched without the need to fend off an obsessed kitten. Thinking of Freyja's unfortunate habit, he makes a detour to the living room and tugs the sofa away from the wall; there are seven odd socks there, and all of them are his. Why she thieves only his, he has no idea, but Grace is always highly amused by it.

Freyja's favourite toy mouse is there as well, and he wedges it into a notch in the coffee table leg for her to find later before returning to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

There's nothing pressing to do, and an afternoon of reading sounds like a nice idea. Coffee made, he takes the clean laundry upstairs and puts the towels in the airing cupboard; the socks stay in the basket. Moving quietly, he makes his way to the bedroom to collect his book, pausing just a couple of feet from the door to smile at the scene on the bed. Grace is fast asleep, curled on her side, and Freyja is tucked against her chest, head and one paw draped over Grace's arm. One feline eye opens and regards him sleepily, then closes again as just the very tip of her tail twitches lazily.

Boyd isn't really watching though; his gaze is lingering on the fascinating curves of his partner's legs and backside, interestingly clad as they are in soft, fitted trousers. If she weren't ill, he thinks, letting the rest of the sentence playout in a mixed storm of sensual colour, taste, sound, memory, hope and fantasy. How long he stands there, he doesn't know, but when Freyja stretches and yawns he slips out of his vision with a soft sigh.

The view may be great, he muses, but despite the house being well heated Grace will still get a chill if he doesn't do something. There's a light blanket folded over the bottom of the bed and he picks it up, letting the folds fall out before gently covering her and tucking in the edges. The sleepy feline emits a squeak of protest. "Sshh," he scolds, his voice barely a whisper. An imperious paw smacks the back of his hand, but the claws are still politely retracted so he merely lifts an eyebrow at the cat, who promptly rolls onto her other side, back to him.

Grace mumbles something unintelligible in her sleep, curling further in on herself and he freezes, holding his position leant over the bed until he's sure she isn't going to wake. She settles, breathing deep and even, and he bends a little further to brush the lightest of kisses against her temple before taking one last long, lingering look at her and then quickly and quietly collecting his book and leaving them both in peace.

…

The minutes bleed away into an hour, then another, the light disappearing around him, and though he gets up and draws the curtains, switching on the tall, slim corner lamp and its smaller cousin on the end table beside him, Boyd doesn't really register the passage of time, only the intriguing story in his book as he turns page after page, remaining comfortably ensconced in the big reclining armchair that's been his favourite since the first time he visited the house.

There's no sound that tips him off, no visible movement. It's just a feeling. A warm, comfortable prickle at the back of his neck and somewhere deep inside his chest. Marking his page with a finger, he looks up and over towards the doorway. Grace is there, leaning against the frame; a slim figure in a thick winter sweater, with spiky hair and intense blue eyes silently watching him.

"Hey, beautiful," he says, slipping the bookmark between the pages and putting the novel aside without looking away from her.

"Peter," she protests, but he shakes his head.

"Ah ah, I'm entitled to think what I want, remember?"

"I know, I know." The small, flattered smile that appears as she responds suits her, sparks a flare of something warm inside his chest.

He holds a palm out to her, and she makes her way over to him, steady on her feet and sure in her movement. It's gratifying to see. "Sleep well?" he queries, as she reaches him and takes his hand.

She has, he can tell. Can see it in the warm shade of her skin and the brightness in her eyes behind the lingering sleepiness. "Yes."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yes, dear," she responds, and the hint of exasperation in her reply isn't quite hidden. He grins, and tugs her close enough so that he can lift her off her feet and into his lap.

"Much better," he declares, winding his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. Grace laughs, the sound almost musical in the air around them.

Tucking a lazy arm around his shoulders, she settles against him, fingers threading idly though his hair.

She smells nice, and there's still some of the lingering warmth from being asleep under the blanket in her clothes and her skin. "Do you like the book?" she asks, nodding to the end table beside them.

"Yes. You were right, as usual."

"I know you, Peter. I knew you'd enjoy it."

"That you do," he agrees, running his lips across the shell of her ear.

She sighs softly, relaxing against him.

"You were watching me," he says, playing with the hem of her sweater.

Grace nods easily, her expression open and honest. "I was," she confirms.

"Why?" He's curious, not demanding.

The fingers of her hand splay out slightly across his chest, over his heart. "I like to watch you when you're reading. You look fascinated, engrossed. And peaceful."

"Peaceful?"

She nods again. "It's true. You looked… at home. Like you belong here, and like you were happy to be here."

Boyd tilts his head, considers her. "I _am_ happy to be here. I wouldn't want to not be here."

"I know," she replies, and somehow it's reassuring. "It's just that when I see you, you're normally with me, or doing something in connection with me. Just now you were doing something for yourself, and you looked content. It was…" she shrugs. "Nice."

He's not quite sure he understands, but he smiles at her anyway. It seems to mean something to her, and that's all he needs to know. "I'm very happy, Grace."

"I'm glad."

She rests her head against his shoulder, tucking herself into him and he tightens his arms around her, cradling her closer. It's strange, he reflects, how so much of their relationship seems to involve sitting together like this, holding one another. But then, he muses, considering the harsh limitations she's been subject to, it's hardly surprising. And though it feels odd when he thinks about it in the context of a normal relationship, he wouldn't change it for the world because there is a very peaceful kind of intimacy that he feels whenever they curl up like this, and that has been very much both wanted and needed by each of them.

They sit quietly for a little while, the silence in no way oppressive or unwanted. He could pick up his book again and read, even with her sitting in his lap, leaning dozily against his chest, but he doesn't want to. Is enjoying the warm comfort and companionship of the moment as it is.

Grace seems perfectly happy as well; is lazily playing with a loose thread of his tee-shirt and seemingly letting her thoughts roam. From what he can see, she's got that expression on her face anyway, the one that tells him she's lost in thought somewhere.

Where, he has no idea, though he suspects that it's probably somewhere interesting and complicated and very, very her. The curiosity builds, until he finally asks, "What are you thinking about?"

The lazy, warm answer surprises him.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

Curious, he shifts slightly so that he can look down at her. "What about me?"

Grace leans back, but doesn't release her hold on him. In the low light of the lamps the shadows seem to cling to her, wrap around her, caress her. The blue in her eyes seems darker, the lightness stolen away, and her gaze is fixed on him though he can't quite tell what's going on in her mind as he sits and stares back at her, caught up in a strange, unfamiliar moment that seems to lengthen and stretch around them.

She doesn't answer his question, at least not verbally. Instead she lifts her hand and rests her palm against his cheek, fingers tender against his skin as she leans in and finds his lips with her own. Her kiss is effortlessly soft, almost a whisper against him and Boyd feels his eyes slide shut, feels near-blinded by the stunning sensuality of it.

"Grace..." he whispers when they eventually pull apart to breathe. He doesn't know what he's asking, only that he's asking something. It doesn't matter though, because she says nothing. Her only response is to kiss him again, and that's absolutely fine by him.

Their lips linger together, a hazy mix of tenderness and the effortless exploration of the limits and boundaries imposed by illness and uncertainty that are rapidly crumbling to dust. This time when they part he's feeling more than a little dazed, and if her expression is anything to go by, so is she.

There is hesitation in her eyes as she looks up at him though, hesitation, and a touch of shyness. One hand slowly stroking through his hair, she asks a halting, "Take me to bed, Peter?"

He understands immediately why she's hesitant, and it tugs at his heartstrings even as he feels a thrill rush through him at the thought of where they might, just _might_ , be heading.

Over the last couple of days they have tried, but… it just hasn't worked. A mix of tension and anxiety, worry and concern. A big disappointment to them both, he knows, and after the first time the added pressure to try and make it work seems to have conspired against them.

It's been so long in the making this moment, not just the months of illness and their strengthening relationship, but the years of friendship and battles and working side by side, day after day.

The thought of it going wrong again… Of what that might mean for the future…

"If it doesn't happen," she tells him, caressing his cheek with infinite care, "it doesn't happen. But I want to try again, if you do, too."

It's easy to keep her tucked against his chest as he stands up, to smile down at her and share another lingering, emotive kiss with her before he strides towards the door and the stairs.

They have waited so long for this, have been through so much, and the added anxiety of finally reaching the point they've both been waiting for, of wanting it to be good…

Patience, Boyd tells himself firmly. Concentrate on the now, not where it's going and what might or might not happen. Just enjoy whatever takes place – don't think about what is _supposed_ to happen.

...

Gloomy grey light wakes him the next morning, and as he stirs, stretching slowly beneath the quilt, blinking sleepily into awareness, Boyd finds he is still filled with the warmth of the previous evening's memories. He remembers how Grace dozed in his arms, their bodies still entangled, of how they shared a lazy bath, and an even lazier dinner, all the while with barely any words between them to shatter the lingering glow of happiness.

That sense of peace lasted until long after they went to bed and he lay awake, listening to the gentle rhythm of her breathing, feeling the steadiness of her heart under his palm as he curled around her, unwilling to let go.

Even now, it feels… as though an axis has shifted. As though a monumental hurdle has been cleared, with the results far more glorious that he ever imagined. Oh, he's been in love with her for a long time, that he freely admits to himself, but somehow, in the darkness and the chaos and the uncertainty of recent months, he's lost track of what he really thought it would be like. Maybe it's the anticipation and the long wait, he doesn't know, but though the sex itself was good, it's the emotional reaction that has floored him so much.

Maybe he's been so jaded for so long, or maybe he's simply mellowing with age, but what he saw in her last night, what she made him feel…

There are no words for it, Boyd decides. No words at all.

She's fast asleep beside him still, curled on her side with a hand resting in the gap between them, palm flat against the mattress. It's a beautiful sight, and he doesn't want to wake her, but today is the day they have both been waiting for, and he must.

Sliding down the bed so that their faces are level, he reaches out and brushes the tip of his index finger over the back of her hand, trailing gently down over her fingers, stroking delicately.

"Grace?" he murmurs softly. "Grace…"

She sighs and mumbles something incoherent, but otherwise doesn't so much as twitch. He has to smile – can't really prevent the curve of his lips from appearing, not when the warmth from last night is still singing in his veins and she seems more gorgeous to him than ever before. Stroking her fingers again, he tries a second time.

"Grace… it's time to wake up…"

She mumbles again, but it's still just as indistinct as before, so he resorts to something he's wanted to try for a long, long time now and slides closer until he can brush his lips against hers, kissing her into wakefulness.

She blinks at him, and stares. Reality and realisation dawn on her; he can see exactly as she remembers. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't need to. He can read it all in her face, her eyes, and he understands. He understands _perfectly_.

"I know," he whispers, and says nothing more because those are all the words that they need to share.

Her eyes change as she registers what day it is, and he watches the fear creep in, rooting deep into that dark blue.

"It'll be okay," he tells her, lifting her hand to kiss her fingers. "I'll be with you, every step of the way."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

 **…**

The Body Farm is quiet, the air still and dampened by a light, chilly fog as Grace slips through the gate and makes her way up the frozen, muddy track, heading for the barely visible wooden hut beside which a familiar car is parked.

It's cold, and she's shivering heavily inside the thick layers of her winter coat, woollen scarf, and the hat pulled down low to hide her short, spiky hair. She's been outside too long now, but she isn't taking any notice. Hasn't for any of the long walk she's taken from the train station she found herself at an indeterminate amount of time ago. The cold is numbing, and right now she needs that more than anything. Clings tightly to it.

She wonders where Boyd is, and feels a slight edge of panic begin to build. It takes everything she has to force it back, to convince herself that wherever he is, he will be fine. Physically, at least.

Whether _she_ will be is another thing entirely.

One foot in front of the other, that's what she's been telling herself. Over and over.

It's repetition and soothing because of it. Is giving her a faint point of focus in the sweeping numbness.

Left, right; left, right.

One, two three…

She breathes in time with the steps; pulls the foggy air as deep into her lungs as she can and feels the dampness permeate her chest, feels it fill her body like a lead blanket, chilling her from the inside out.

She doesn't know why she is here. Not really.

Except…

She had to go somewhere, anywhere, and Eve was the first person she thought of. The only one who knows. Who can – and _will_ – offer the sanctuary she is desperate for. And sanctuary it is, for the dead don't talk and no-one else comes to this deserted, desolate space.

Eve is…

Someone who knows everything. Someone who will listen. Someone who won't judge, but who will be honest and pragmatic with her.

Someone who cares, and who will hold it together for her. Because that's what she needs right now.

Someone strong. Someone to hold her together as she fractures into a thousand or more pieces.

Dead bodies…

The thought of what exactly it is hiding in the ground, the trees, the boot of the rusting old car… all those bodies all around her…

Without warning, her stomach roils violently, and Grace doubles over, clutching her legs, staggering. Bodies, dead ones, all around her. People whose lives ended. People who left loved ones behind, families distraught.

What the hell is she doing? The risk of catching something here, with all these rotting corpses – surely it's sky high? What is she doing putting her hard-fought-for health at risk like this? Boyd would be furious with her if he knew, she's sure. He's so worried about her, all the time, and this...

Where _is_ he? What is he doing?

He hasn't called her, and she wonders why. But then, she reasons, she hasn't called him, either, so…

Perspective, that's why she's here. For perspective.

…

Shrouded in mist, the wooden building that contains Eve's treasures looms closer, it's darkly stained timbers standing out in the muted light of the strangely grey-white atmosphere.

It looks like she feels, reflects Grace, a numb, frozen entity just about visible through all the gloom.

Getting closer, she wonders is this was a good idea, if she should be here. Eve has her own life, things she needs and wants to do, and no matter how strong the friendship between the pair of them is now, Grace really isn't sure that she should be –

The door to hut opens, and Eve looks out at her, partly curious, partly worried. "Come inside, Grace, it's far too cold for you to be out there at the moment."

Obediently, and acting on instinct, she does as she is bid, climbing the two small steps and making her way through the door into the open-plan room and the blissful warmth that is waiting for her.

There are no corpses in here, no rotting body parts. Except… On a small table nearby there is a glass tank containing a skull and a lot of beetles busily gnawing on the remaining bits of semi-desiccated tissue still clinging stubbornly to the bone. There's not much of it, most of the skull bare and stark to Grace's eye, and the beetles seem to be jostling and fighting to get their share.

 _How much have they already eaten,_ she wonders, her stomach turning, another wave of sickness rising. She shivers, trembles heavily inside her coat and hat and scarf. _Is that what I will look like, eventually? After my body goes into the ground?_

It's a chilling thought, one that makes her feel clammy and faint, makes her knees weak as she wavers slightly on her feet.

"Grace?" Eve's face right in front of her own, expression soft and concerned. Small slender hands take her arm, guide her over to the central table and its chair. "Sit," her friend urges. "Let the heater warm you up while I make some tea."

There's a small but very efficient device radiating warmth just across the room from her, Grace realises, the break in her concentration pulling her out of the terrifyingly morbid thoughts.

"Excuse the bones; I was working on…"

The rest of the sentence dies away as Grace turns in her chair, towards the table and finds herself face to face with another skull. The unoccupied eye sockets stare back at her, deep, dark pits of emptiness that draw her in, seize her focus and with it her rationality. The darkness of panic claws at the edges of her vision, moving in and taking a firm hold before she can fight it. She can smell the scent of wet, mouldy earth, feel the damp of decomposition in the ground and she shakes with terror, her heart pounding in her chest, her stomach lurching.

She doesn't feel Eve take hold of her hands, doesn't see her friend step between her and the table, blocking those vacant eyes from view. It's not until she feels something shake her shoulder roughly, hears her name almost shouted that she jerks backwards, saved from falling by the chair, and gasps, choking.

"Breathe with me," urges Eve. Fixed on the warm brown gaze that has replaced those yawning black pits, Grace obeys, can't do anything but, her focus is so splintered. It helps, and with the steady pressure of slender warm hands on her own and the rhythmic counting of her friend's soft, distinctive tone she slowly, slowly claws her way back.

"Keep breathing, follow the count, nice and slowly. That's it, you're doing great," is the soothing instruction, and Grace believes her. Feels the light make its way back into her vision, the warmth creep back into her skin, the jelly seep out of her bones.

"What happened?" asks Eve, clearly worried.

Clearing her throat Grace struggles with words that don't want to form on her tongue. "The skull," she finally whispers.

"On the table behind me?" Despite the question, her rescuer doesn't move, instead keeps the offending item firmly behind her back as Grace nods shakily.

"Okay, can you close your eyes for a minute and I'll move it?"

"Yes." Her voice sounds so weak and far away, and Grace despises herself for it. For her weakness. For needing help with something so silly.

There are sounds, rattling, scraping, the rasp of a wooden drawer opening and closing, the chink of a teaspoon against porcelain, then metal. Footsteps on floorboards sanded smooth, the swish of cloth as those steps draw closer. Eve's hand takes hers, wraps it around a hot mug, steadies her as Grace opens her eyes, blinks against the glare of the overhead lamps.

"Harold is back in his drawer," Eve assures her, waiting until Grace is steady enough to let go and edge back a little, perching on the table.

"I'm sorry." The words are thick, difficult to deliver. Filled with shame.

"Don't be, I should have put him away hours ago. I only got him out for reference. Drink some tea – it'll make you feel better."

Obediently, Grace sips, and is pleasantly surprised by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout her chest. Eyes on the mug, suddenly totally unsure of what to say now that she's finally here, she whispers a near inaudible, "Thank you."

Eve waits quietly, sipping from her own mug until Grace has swallowed half of her drink. Only then does she put her mug aside and clasp her hands in her lap.

Grace can feel the thoughtful gaze watching her, even as she continues to look down into the liquid depths of her mug, words failing her.

"Do you want me to ask?"

The concern she can hear in those words makes Grace feel sick. Not because her friend cares, but because she cannot believe she is here. _Why_ she is here. She staggers to her feet, sways enough that Eve takes the cup from her hands and puts it aside. Freed from the responsibility of not having to hold on to anything, Grace begins to pace. Tries desperately to summon the words.

Nothing happens. Only the scrape of her boots on the wooden floorboards as she walks. The movement helps, at least, even if the words she so desperately needs don't come. The tightness in her chest eases a little, the fog in her mind begins to move on.

 _Is this why Peter paces?_ she asks herself. _Because it clears his head?_

A deep, steadying breath, and then another. Opening her mouth, she tries, but no sound emerges.

"Do you want me to say it?"

Looking up, Grace finds Eve in exactly the same place, still sitting on the edge of the table, her dark eyes steady, calm. Filled with sympathy.

Pacing down the length of the room Grace takes in all the bones, the maps, the objects and instruments she can't name, doesn't know the purpose of. The only thing she knows is that they are all related to death. Without warning, the skull appears in her mind, mocking her, laughing at her.

She chokes. Falls forward and grabs the end of the table, gasping for breath.

"I can't do it, Eve," she cries, hands clutching at the wooden surface. "I can't go through it all again not knowing if it will be enough."

"Grace…"

"I thought… I thought it would work. I thought, this is hell, and surely surviving hell is enough to beat it? Surely if I can get through this then that's it? I've made it. It's all over."

She feels surprisingly strong arms catch hold of her, pull her close. Feels the tickle of long, thick hair against her face as she crumples into the fierce embrace of her friend.

"I can't live with not knowing," she whispers, near chokes.

She doesn't cry, but Grace trembles endlessly as Eve holds on, supports her, lets the storm pass though. And it takes a long, long time to pass.

…

It's snowing again. That's the first thing that Grace notices as she looks up from Eve's shoulder. Lazy flakes are drifting past the window, swirling to and fro in the building breeze. It's by no means a storm, but it could be later, given how cold it is, how frozen the ground is. Probably will be.

More bleak cold to look forward to. To seep into her bones and chill her from the inside out.

"What if I die before I get to do all the things I want to do, Eve?"

Eve doesn't answer immediately, and as the two of them straighten, Grace can see the dilemma in her eyes. Her friend is too much of a realist, too practical and honest to lie to her, but she clearly wants to.

"I'd give anything to say that won't happen, Grace," she eventually says, and the pain in her eyes is very real. "But I can't. What did the doctor say, exactly?"

Closing her eyes briefly, Grace sighs, her mind wandering back over the conversation she didn't want to have in her consultant's consultation room. "That he thinks there are two options, going forward. Option one is more surgery to reduce the size of the tumour but not remove it entirely – they can't – followed by radiotherapy. Option two is a more aggressive type of chemo, five cycles over fifteen weeks, followed by radiotherapy."

Eve is nodding, expression thoughtful. "Oncology isn't really my forte," she admits, when Grace raises an almost-eyebrow, "but I've been speaking to a couple of friends and doing a lot of research over the last few weeks. That doesn't surprise me."

"What do you mean?" Despite the warmth of the room Grace feels a sudden chill, as though the building storm has suddenly found its way into their shelter. She feels as though Eve knows something she doesn't.

Her companion sighs heavily, eyes downcast as she studies the table before looking up slowly, sadly. "I… had a feeling the news you got today wouldn't be good." There must be a horrified look on her face, gathers Grace, because Eve looks suddenly rattled, as though she needs to offer reassurance. "I was really, really hoping I'd be wrong, of course I was," is the insistent promise suddenly projected towards her, and not for one moment does Grace disbelieve her. She nods, and Eve continues. "It's just that… all the things that have gone wrong for you, all the delays, all the infections, the complications… I just had a really bad feeling that it wouldn't be enough. That you would… have to keep fighting." There are tears building in those brown eyes, and their owner continues, tone washed with deep sadness and quiet. "I'm really, really sorry, Grace."

"It's not your fault. It's no-one's fault." Grace pauses, stares at the tea on the table in front of her, at the ragged ends of the packet of biscuits neither of them have touched. "Maybe it's mine," she finally decides.

"What? How?" Disbelief. Shock. Confusion.

She shrugs, begins to wander again, her steps aimless, slightly steadier than before. "Maybe I shouldn't have tried to keep working? Maybe I should have stayed at home, holed-up inside the house and just been patient. Maybe I brought this all on myself, going out and exposing myself to infection, or trying to work and wearing myself out too much in the process?"

Long hair ripples as its owner shakes her head. "No. No! Even if you had stayed at home bugs would still have found you. Boyd would still have been in and out of the house, and he's in contact with the rest of us and God knows who and what else. And as for working… well, it kept you sane, didn't it? It gave you a purpose, something to help you get through the days, and that's… that's far more valuable in terms of keeping your mental health intact than a few hours of lost sleep here and there. And let's be honest, Grace – you haven't worked that much since you started treatment anyway. I think the most you've been in the office in one week since the operation is two and a half days."

Reluctantly, she nods. "You're right. Maybe."

"You've just been really, really unlucky. It's criminally unfair, and it makes a mockery of everything you've worked so hard for, but that's just the way these things go sometimes. No-one is to blame."

Sitting down again and leaning back in her chair, Grace picks up her mug, using it to warm her hands. "Perhaps you're right," she admits. "I don't know what to think anymore. I thought, I _hoped_ , that today I was going to hear what I've been quietly daydreaming about for weeks now. I thought…" She trails off, unable to go on, head falling forwards until she can see nothing but the mug resting in her lap. It takes a long time, but finally she's able to admit, "I've been so afraid of this day for so long now, and I somehow managed to convince myself to believe that it would be okay. That I'd get to hear that I could move on with from all this. That Peter was right and we could have the rest of our lives together."

Eve nods, listening carefully. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't offer her thoughts, and Grace is incredibly grateful for just how intuitive her friend is. How well Eve knows her, how willing to listen she is.

"I think I knew, though, deep down. In fact, I'm sure I did. I just kept telling myself that it would be okay, for him. Because this is killing him, Eve. Every day he gets more stressed, more worried about me, and there's nothing I can do to help him. Nothing I can do to make that go away, and it hurts so much to watch him struggling to hold it all together for me, when inside I feel like I'm falling apart, and outside I feel so ill most of the time that there's nothing I can do to make any of it easier."

"Where _is_ Boyd?" Eve wants to know. "I can't imagine that he willingly let you get yourself all the way out here in this weather."

Shivering, Grace hugs her arms to her body, shakes her head miserably. "I don't know. We got home, but neither of us knew what to say to each other. We couldn't look at each other, couldn't be in the same room… It was too claustrophobic. He suggested we might need a bit of space to process what had happened."

Eve's eyebrows shoot up, almost disappearing behind her fringe. " _He_ said that?"

"Yeah."

"And what did _you_ say?"

"I… I agreed. Because I didn't know what else to say. Because I thought he was going to explode with the anger and stress of it all."

Eve looks suspicious in a very concerned sort of way. "What happened then?"

Grace swallows. Tries desperately hard not to remember the look on his face. How she felt like the world was splintering around her as he carefully made his suggestion. "He told me he loved me, and then he left."

"And he didn't tell you where he was going?"

"No."

"Shit."

Grace laughs bitterly. "That's not what I said, but it echoes the sentiment of what I was thinking when the door shut behind him."

Eve looks up at her, eyes narrowing. "You know he hasn't left you, don't you? Please tell me you know that, Grace?"

Her voice is a hollow whisper, and she despises it. "I know that."

She's restless, can't keep still. Doesn't know what to do with herself. Gets up and paces the length of the room again as Eve watches, silent. Waiting.

Once, twice. Three times and she begins to waver on her feet. Realises how tired she is after the long, long trek in the icy weather. In the end, she subsides back into her chair, admitting defeat.

The words she doesn't want to utter come as she settles herself.

"Sometimes I get close to wondering what it would be like to just give up. I imagine that it would be an incredible relief to stop fighting. And then I feel impossibly guilty because of everything he's done for me, and because of what it would do to him if I did. But then I think, if I _was_ gone he could move on. Find someone fit and healthy who could go out and do things with him. Who could give him all the things I can't."

Shaking, she reaches for her mug again. Gulps the remaining tea down and coughs, clenching her hands around the ceramic as her shoulders hunch forwards, in on herself.

"He doesn't want anyone else, Grace," Eve says softly. "Even if you weren't here, he would still want you. Do you really not know just how much you mean to him? You're the centre of his universe. Even his job, the CCU, they pale in comparison to what you are to him."

Grace shakes her head, heavy sadness clinging to her as she argues, "The CCU is his baby; he'll never give it up."

The response is gentle, but it is immediate and firm. "It is, yes, and I don't doubt that he's poured his heart and soul into it over the years, and committed far more to it than any of us are even aware of, given up far more that we could imagine for it, but it doesn't love him back Grace, and he knows that. It isn't going to last forever."

"Neither am I, it seems." There's heavy bitterness in the words, and supressed anger, too. She doesn't even mean to say them, they just somehow fight their way out of her before she can force them back.

"You don't know that."

Staring into the bottom of her mug she considers for a moment how many cups of tea she's had in her lifetime. How many more she _will_ have. Not a lot, or many, many more? The latter, Grace decides. Tea is… wonderful. Healing. Cosy. Simple. So much a part of her everyday life that she cannot imagine being without it. Just like she cannot now imagine being without Peter Boyd. "You're right," she murmurs. "I don't."

Grace swallows, laces her fingers more firmly around the mug, drawing on the remnants of its fading heat. "I want my forever with him, Eve. I want to keep waking up beside him, knowing that we've got years left together to do all the things we want to do."

"And he wants the same thing. He wants you, and a life together. I know, because I can see it in him, and because he's told me."

It's a revelation, the latter part of the sentence. "He has?"

Eve nods. "About a month ago we were having coffee, just the two of us in my lab. He needed to blow off some steam, to sit and talk to someone who could and _would_ listen. I asked him what he'll do when it gets out, because it _will_ get out eventually, and he said he doesn't care anymore. The job is only for a few more years, and it doesn't care about him – it won't love him for the rest of his life. It's not what he thinks about when he first wakes up or when he goes to sleep, and it's not what he dreams about either."

"That's very… unlike… Boyd," observes Grace, a tiny smile breaking through at the thought of him sharing such personal thoughts and feelings with Eve.

"I think I caught him at a weak moment with my question," is grinning, light-hearted reply. "In all seriousness, though, Grace, you mean everything to him. He absolutely adores you. Despite the stress and the horror of it all, he's got a sense of purpose about him that I've never seen in him before. And that's because of you."

"I love him so much," she admits. "I'd do anything to make this easier for him. I just think it's so unfair that after everything he's been through he ends up having to deal with this, having to look after me when I'm so ill I can barely move, and all of it on top of a full time job that's as relentless as this blasted disease is."

Eve is shaking her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What?"

"It was _his choice_ , Grace. He chose to commit to you, to move in with you, to look after you. He could have walked away from any of those things, but he didn't. And he hasn't. He doesn't want to. He wants you, in whatever form he gets you."

"I still don't think it's fair," she replies, stubbornly fighting it because it's the only way she knows.

Eve sees straight through her. Of course she does. "It's _not_ fair," she agrees, eyes clear and filled with characteristic level-headed calmness. "Of course it isn't. But he didn't make his decision uninformed about what he was taking on. He knew what he was doing and he still chose to do it. But that's not the issue at the root of all this though, is it? You feel guilty about what he's doing for you, and somehow you still can't accept that you deserve it."

It stings a lot to have her vulnerabilities so neatly exposed, but Grace has never shied away from the truth, and she isn't about to start now. "You're right, I can't."

"Why?"

"Our relationship is so unequal at the moment. He does everything. He gets up and goes to work, puts in all that overtime, and then somehow he still manages to come home and take care of me. He cooks, cleans, does most of the housework. I do what I can, but there are so many days when I can barely get out of bed that it doesn't in any way even out. There are days when he even has to help me shower because I can't stand up for long enough on my own. And he doesn't get anything in return."

"He gets you. Which is all he wants."

"But he doesn't, though, does he? Because we don't… I can barely…"

"His choice, Grace," Eve repeats, firmly but not unkindly.

The frustration is so great that it eclipses all the other arguments she wants to find, to use. "It's just not fair though." It sounds like a metronome, like she's whining and complaining, and Grace despises herself for it, but she can't stop the words, is at a complete loss for how else to explain how she feels.

There is a lot of sympathy as Eve speaks, but also plenty of firm veracity. "No, it's not, not at all. But it _is_ reality, for now. It won't always be like that, though. If you fight, and you win, life will be very different."

"But there are no guarantees," mutters Grace darkly. "I could fight, and die. And then he'll still have nothing."

"He'll still have memories of loving you, of moments and days and things that you did together that made him happy. Are you telling me that the two of you are unhappy together?"

It's a deeply sceptical question, and rightly so, Grace supposes. "No, of course not. We have a lot of fun together. We joke and laugh, and cheer each other up on bad days. It's just… we're so limited in what we can actually do. Everything that's gone wrong – and it feels like a _constant_ stream of things that have gone wrong – has left me so weak that even on good days I can barely manage much."

Out of the blue, and completely unexpectedly, hot, tumultuous anger works its way up into her chest, taking over.

"I hate it," she rages, the words exploding from her in a loud, desperate shout. "I hate it so, _so_ much."

There is silence, though it is far from tense or uncomfortable. Yet as the fury fades just as quickly as it appeared Grace still feels the need to apologise, to try and explain herself.

"I'm sorry." Closing her eyes, she rests her head in her hands. "I don't mean to complain. I'm fortunate, I know. I have a man who loves me and is willing to do whatever it takes to help me, but I just…"

"It's okay," soothes Eve. "Grace, listen to me. You don't have to be strong all the time, you know. It's okay to be upset and complain and hate the world – I know I would if I were in your shoes. Especially if I'd had the news you have today."

The same words echo in her head, though the voice in her mind is deeper, masculine. "You sound just like Boyd," she whispers.

"I do?" The confusion is understandable.

She nods, fighting her misery. "He told me the same thing. Wanted me to understand that it's okay to be angry, because I _am_ angry. Or I was. I don't know anymore. I'm so confused about it all. I thought…" She trails off, feeling old and pathetic, hating herself.

Eve waits, patiently. Then eventually seems to decide that she needs prodding. "Go on," she encourages. "You thought…?"

Grace inhales deeply, lets it all out slowly. "I thought I understood myself. The way my emotions work, my thoughts. If this experience has taught me anything, it's that I was so, so wrong about that. I question everything now. React differently to everything. It's so… unsettling. Sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am anymore."

"What do you mean?" It's a thoughtful, curious question.

"I'm not an angry person by nature. Of course things annoy me and I lose my temper from time to time, but I know when it's happening, and I know that if I let that outburst happen then I can move on. I know how to handle my feelings, and I know what I'm feeling – I understand what's behind my feelings, and the reasons why I react to things the way I do. Human behaviour – it's my specialty, and I've always been able to stay calm, to do the rational thing, to make the right decisions."

"But…"

Biting her lip, Grace shakes her head. "But now I'm questioning everything. I'm unbalanced all the time. At least, that's how I feel. I'm angry with so many things, and I try to hide it, try not to let it out because I don't want it to affect my life, my relationship with Peter… and I feel _so_ guilty. All the time. It's overwhelming. Almost everything feels overwhelming, sometimes, and I don't know why. And I don't know how to deal with it. But I should."

"Why should you?"

"Because I'm supposed to know these things. I spent _years_ counselling other people on how to deal with situations like this. But now it turns out that I can't even deal with my own thoughts and feelings."

Eve considers her quietly for a while, before eventually speaking up again. "You've had this very same discussion with him, haven't you?"

Confused, Grace stares at her. Christmas Eve, she remembers, the marathon conversation that lasted well into the night still fresh in her memory. He listened to her then; he listened and he didn't judge, only did his best to help her and to understand. Where he found the strength or the patience, she still doesn't know, but the fact that he did... She clears her throat, admits, "I have, yes."

"I can guess what he told you," posits Eve, "and I'm going to assume it was something very close to what I'm going to tell you now."

"Probably," sighs Grace.

Eve forges ahead, clearly determined. "You can't do it all on your own, Grace, and you shouldn't have to, either."

"So I keep hearing."

"Then _why_ are you being so stubborn?"

"I'm not."

Eve rolls her eyes. "Oh, you _are_ , Grace. You really are."

"Eve – "

The beginnings of her protest are roundly ignored as her friend pushes onwards. "And you know what?"

"No, but you're going to tell me anyway, so I'm sure I will in a moment." Where the will to squabble has suddenly come from, she has no idea, but Grace isn't going to fight it. Not if it means she's starting to break through the terrible numbness.

"That last time you were so bloody stubborn, you spent years denying yourself a relationship with the man you're head over heels in love with. The very man you now _finally_ spend your nights sleeping beside."

"Yeah." Grace scowls darkly, not voicing what she's really thinking. Sleeping _beside_. She turns her thoughts to Boyd, specifically to wondering where he is. "The same man who disappeared earlier because he didn't know what to do, how to talk to me."

"Stop it," orders Eve, sighing heavily. "That's not fair on him, and you know it. Besides, you're here instead of with him."

It stings. Rather unpleasantly so, Grace discovers. So much so, in fact, that she feels tears prickle at the back of her eyes. Outraged, and thoroughly embarrassed at her lack of control, she glares at the floor for what seems like long minutes while she gets herself under control. It's not supposed to be like this. _She's_ not supposed to be like this. She doesn't lose control of herself, of her temper. Her emotions.

Except… lately she does. Rarely in front of _him_ , because she's become a master at hiding it from him, but she's sure he suspects, sure he is putting two and two together when she does something out of character. And it's happening more and more often, because she just… can't help it. Doesn't have full control anymore.

"I'm sorry," she eventually whispers, and she really means it. Feels incredibly sad and dejected.

"So you keep saying." A slender hand lands on her shoulder, squeezes briefly. "Have you considered talking to someone? A professional, I mean?"

"Therapy…" mutters Grace, the word leaving a bad taste in her mouth. It shouldn't, she knows, but it does anyway. A huge flare of guilt wells in her stomach.

Again, the shake of a head, the fluttering movement of that long dark hair. "Not necessarily. Maybe just your doctor, or the Macmillan nurses – that's what they're there for. What they specialise in."

"But – " She is interrupted before she can get any further.

"No. You're not superwoman, Grace, and you shouldn't expect yourself to be."

"I know, but…"

"No buts. I wouldn't expect myself to do my own autopsy, so why should you expect to understand and heal your own psychological injuries?"

Grace doesn't answer the question, instead asks, "Why do I find this so hard? Why am I struggling to accept it when I know it's all right there in front of me?"

"I really don't know," shrugs Eve, "but I think you need to, for your sanity, and for Boyd's."

She laughs, but it is a thin, hollow sound. "I know. Trust me, I do." _He's_ been telling her, now _Eve's_ telling her… Grace knows it's true, however much it bothers her to accept it. And it really _is_ bothering her. Maybe it's time she sat herself down – on a good day – and gave serious consideration to all the things that she doesn't have answers to, all the things that are bothering her, worrying her, upsetting her, making her life difficult. If she makes the time to go through it all in her own head, then perhaps she will get somewhere with the yawning mass of churning chaos inside her that feels as though it might just be about to swallow her whole.

"Tell me what you want to do, so I can remind you what it is you're fighting for," the other woman suggests, clearly looking to try to turn the conversation in a more positive direction.

Pulled out of her thoughts, Grace answers without thinking. "Sex." It's the first thing that leaps into her mind, and the word escapes from her lips before she can stop it.

"Sex…" repeats Eve, a little vaguely, before nodding in agreement. "I think we'd all fight for that."

"Oh, God." Leaning forward, her head falling into her hands, Grace fights back a sob. "I want him _so_ much. So much it hurts, sometimes. It's been _seven months_ , Eve, and in all that time we've made love _once_. Once! It's so _unfair_."

Her eyes are stinging, but there are no tears. Heat burns in her face, around her neck. None of that was supposed to escape from her traitorous lips, _none_ of it. She's always been able to hold her tongue, to keep her own and others' secrets. _Always_. It really shows just how vulnerable and beaten down she is in this moment, Grace realises, recognising, for the first time, just how fragile she really feels, just how very far she is from her normal happy, steady, collected self.

She feels like a shadow. A shadow clinging on as the bright sunlight tries to push her back, inching her away further and further while she watches and feels her strength, her hold on herself and the world around her fade little by little under the relentless pressure.

"Last night," says Eve, resting that hand on her shoulder again for a moment. Somehow it's neither a statement nor a question. Grace looks up as she feels the gentle sensation, the quiet show of caring. Her friend looks saddened, unhappy for her.

"How did you know?" The words emerge as barely a whisper.

The head shaking, those brown eyes full of compassion. "I didn't, really. Just… intuition, and… well, you look, in some ways, I suppose happier is the closest word, right now than you have in months, so..."

Grace can't speak, can't look at her friend, doesn't even know what to do with her limbs. She feels suddenly incredibly ungainly, awkward, and in response she buries her face in her hands, utterly miserable.

Eve sighs heavily, and there's nothing but friendship, caring and sadness in her tone as she speaks again. "I'm so sorry, Grace. I really can't imagine quite how awful it must be to have finally… well, you know… and then heard the news you did today."

It's exactly that.

"I…" the words don't come. Instead there's just blank silence inside her head. She wants to cry, to sob in horror and anger and fear – absolute, blinding terror – but the tears just won't come. And that's the worst thing of all because without them she can't release all the terrible, terrible things eating her up inside. She can't breathe, she can't speak, and she can't cry. Panic starts to build up and her vision begins to blur, to become darker at the edges.

Eve seems to sense exactly what is happening because suddenly Grace finds herself being pulled into a fierce, protective hug. "It's okay," she hears. "One breath at a time."

It works. Surprisingly, and with Eve counting for her, it works. Pulls her back from the brink again.

 _Christ_ , thinks Grace, shaking, twice in one day. _I have got to try and sort myself out. I really can't go on like this…_

"Was it good?"

"What?" Eve's question comes from the blue, seemingly, and, pulled out of her dark, grey thoughts as she regains control of herself, Grace is momentarily confused.

"Last night," Eve clarifies.

"Oh. That." It's easy to reach for the memory, to fall back into the moment and see the fierce look of desire in his eyes, to remember just how exquisite the pleasure of it all was. Far more important though, in a surprising but heart-warming way, was the way he held her afterwards, the look of stunned bewilderment in his eyes as they collapsed together on the bed, drifting in a semiconscious state of blissful intoxication. The way that they naturally seemed to gravitate towards each other in the hours that followed as they lazed in the bath together, made dinner between them and then watched a film before bedtime. It was as though, she muses now, something fundamental had shifted; even after all this time, even after other pleasurable midnight encounters, something felt different afterwards, and they both seemed unable to let it – each other – go.

"It was… wonderful. I'd say magical, almost, but that would sound childish, or clichéd."

"Would it though," asks Eve, "if it's the truth?"

Grace takes a breath, long and slow. Tries to gather her messy, complicated, conflicted thoughts. "I don't know. I don't know why I'm even talking about this. It's so…"

"Uncomfortable?" Despite the bold – and accurate – question, it is delivered with nothing but kindness and understanding.

"Yes." It costs a lot to be honest. More than she would have thought beforehand.

There's a thoughtful pause, then, "But who else are you going to talk to about all this? Certainly not Boyd. And you do need to talk to about it, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't be here…"

Grace smiles, though there is sadness in her eyes. Looks up at Eve and nods, despite the twisted knot of anguish and discomfort rolling around inside her chest. "I think you missed your calling," she sighs.

Eve laughs, shakes her head. "No, thank you," she declares. "For you, Grace, I will willingly listen and try to pick through the problems, but in a professional capacity… absolutely not! Far too many unknowns and uncertainties. Far too much grey, not enough black and white. And stop trying to change the subject."

"I'm not. I just… Oh, I don't know. I'm in uncharted territory here, and I haven't got a compass to try and navigate my way back."

"Nautical references?"

"My father was a sailor in the Royal Navy, and his father and grandfather before him. That I was a girl was something of a disappointment, I think."

"I see. Well, why not just tell me what's going on inside your head and we'll try and sort it out?"

It's not an offer she can refuse, not when she's feeling so ill at ease and thoroughly unhappy in herself. "Okay."

"Good. Where were we then? You were trying to convince me that 'magical' wasn't an appropriate way to describe your… encounter… last night with the handsome Detective Superintendent – who is quite obviously utterly head over heels in love with you, I might add."

Grace smiles weakly. "It just feels… like a silly schoolgirl way to phrase it. Last night was so… so much more than I thought it would be. And now…"

Observant as ever, Eve immediately picks up on what she leaves unsaid. "And now what?"

Lacing her fingers together and twisting them at the knuckles, Grace fights the temptation to scream at her inability to express herself. The words just don't come, and to her that is almost frightening, is frustrating beyond measure.

"Okay," muses Eve, picking up on the struggle with ease. "I'm going to make a few observations here, to see if that will help. Stop me if I'm wrong, yeah...?"

Grace nods, and waits as Eve continues. "You've been living with Boyd for months now, and last night was the first time the… fates have aligned… or whatever you want to call it, though I'm guessing there have been other… moments… that just haven't managed to get as far as last night, for whatever reason given the precarious state of your health, and all of that is incredibly stressful and frustrating, for both of you."

Eve pauses, hands freezing in mid-gesticulation, and Grace nods, not bothering to try and hide her misery. "That's all completely normal and understandable under the circumstances. I think anyone would agree, though certainly it's unpleasant for both of you, especially given just how many years it's taken the two of you to get to this point in your relationship.

"But what is compounding all of that, and I can only take an educated guess here, coupled with intuition derived from both being female, and from being your friend and knowing you as well as I do, is how you feel about yourself at the moment."

Grace flinches. She can't help it. And Eve sees it. Sees it, and keeps talking, though her tone drops a little lower, becomes even more sympathetic. "I'm not wrong in thinking that you feel pretty low about yourself right now, am I?" she asks.

It's so hard to be honest, but Grace forces herself to be. "No."

Eve drags her chair closer, her knees coming into Grace's line of vision as she determinedly stares at her own legs. Pale, slender hands that are warm and smooth reach out and gently take her own again, offering comfort.

"Grace… it's horrible, I'm sure, and I won't pretend that I can even begin to imagine how you feel after everything that you've been through, but I do know that it's completely normal to feel like you're not in control of your own body, or to be uncomfortable in your own skin; to feel undesirable or – "

"I look half dead," she blurts out, the words escaping in a tangled flurry. Shocked at her admission, Grace looks up into brown eyes that are warm and sympathetic. "I… I look terrible, Eve, and he says he doesn't see that, that he thinks I'm beautiful, but _look_ at me. How can he possibly? How can he want to be with me? Why would he want to stay with me when it's only going to get worse?"

"Do you really think Boyd is so shallow that how you look on the outside is all that matters to him?"

She flinches again, because the almost-accusation hurts. "No," she protests, "I don't. He's not like that. It's just…"

"You feel so battered and bruised in yourself that you're questioning everything, that you feel like you can't trust anything," suggests Eve.

It's hard – incredibly hard – to be honest and agree, but Grace forces herself. Even the single word that she manages to produce in answer burns through her, the shame is so great. "Yes."

"Don't be ashamed," Eve murmurs. "I can't imagine how I would feel if I was in your situation. Just look at everything you've been through. You were kidnapped by a sadistic killer, you've had fairly major surgery, you've been through chemotherapy. You've had the worst luck in the world with side effects and infections. And all the while you've been starting a new relationship with the man you've been quietly in love with for a long, long time now. All of that in the space of a few months – you can't expect to take it all in your stride. You know as well as I do – better than, actually – how much any one of those things could affect someone emotionally, so when you take all of it together, and combine it with how physically ill you've been, what do you get?"

It's a question designed to force her to say it aloud, Grace knows. A question she needs to face up to. "A mess," she finally admits. "One I don't know how to deal with."

"Exactly."

"But I _need_ to learn to deal with it." It's so very true, and she knows it. Can see now a little bit of where the cracks are forming, where she's beginning to lose her grip on things.

"Not alone," is the response that comes straight back at her.

"I think I'm reluctantly coming to that conclusion," she agrees.

"Good." There's no malice in the response, but there is firmness. "So we're back to the start of the circle again; why don't you ask your consultant? See what he thinks?"

"I… I will. Because I can't keep living like this. It's… awful." It's a difficult statement, but once it's out into the open between them, Grace realises she will follow through with it. Because she _has_ to.

Eve isn't one to press where she doesn't need to. "Good," is all she says in response. "Now, let's talk about something more cheerful, shall we? Why don't you tell me the other things you want to do in the future?"

Grace smiles, and it is very genuine, because she truly appreciates what her friend is doing for her, how she's refusing to allow the gloom to descend back into the conversation when they have achieved the most important goal before them today.

"I want to drink tea in cafes, have time to sit and watch the world and talk about anything and nothing, to relax and live and love in the moment with him."

"Sounds nice. A bit of people watching and gossip… something I can really see Boyd… enjoying…"

Grace laughs again, this time at the look of disbelief on Eve's face. "You'd be surprised," she admits. "At home he's a different man. Far quieter, much calmer. Good at relaxing."

"Mm." Very much an I'll-believe-it-when-I-see-it tone.

"I want to travel," Grace continues. "All over the world. And I want to have a midnight feast somewhere out in the countryside, lying on a blanket and watching the stars."

"Nice," sighs Eve, with an approving nod. "It sounds very romantic."

"Somewhere quiet and remote," adds Grace, not bothering to disguise the wishful tone in her voice.

Eve, who has wandered over to check the laptop screen across the room, looks over at her, studies her carefully. Seems to come to the conclusion that what she thinks was just implied was in fact actually implied. "Grace Foley, you naughty girl, you!" she laughs, her eyes lighting up with amusement.

"It needs to be summer," adds Grace, "obviously."

"Obviously," snickers Eve, her eyes dancing with mirth.

"Mostly," admits Grace, becoming more serious again, "I want to wake up knowing I've got the strength to do whatever I want to during the day."

Eve smiles. Crosses the room again and sits back down. "And with any luck, you will have." She pauses for a moment, lips pursed slightly in consideration before she continues, a little hesitantly this time. "Grace, you know that you can keep talking to me, don't you?"

Grace nods, and the simple gratitude she feels towards her friend is almost overwhelming.

"I mean it. Anytime."

"I know," she replies quietly, steadily. "Thank you."

Eve rubs her hands together, clearly glad she has voiced her thoughts. "Okay, good."

There's something else there too, something Grace can't fail to miss in the awkward movement, or the stretching silence. "Are you in a hurry to leave?" she asks, curious.

Eve pauses, and then gives a cagy smile. "I might be going out in a bit."

Interest definitely piqued, Grace sits up straighter, studies her friend. "Alone?"

"No."

"Ooh, a date?"

Silence again, just for a moment, then, "Might be…"

Struggling not to grin, Grace keeps pushing. "With anyone I might know?"

Eve can't hold it in any longer, admits a guilty, "Alex."

Grace lets out a tiny cheer. "I knew it! I _knew_ you two would get along."

"No, I'm not telling you where we're going," Eve says quickly.

"I'm not going to ask, but… is this the first date?"

For a moment it looks like she isn't going to get an answer. Then, "No. Third."

"Wow." They pause and Grace stares, intrigued. "That was quick," she murmurs, a hint of a sly smirk building.

Eve presses her lips together, tries not to smirk. Confesses, "I like him…"

Grace laughs, and it is the first real, genuine laugh of the day. It starts deep in her chest and works its way up and out, gripping her in the warmth and comfort of true amusement.

"What?" demands Eve, a faintly perturbed expression forming on her face.

"Nothing," gasps Grace, trying valiantly to reassert some control over herself.

"Clearly there's something," scowls Eve, obviously nettled. "Otherwise you wouldn't be doing a pretty damn good impression of a hyena right now…"

Breathing deeply, Grace fights to straighten out her features, to repress the overwhelming urge to grin, and keep grinning. "Nothing," she repeats, finally mastering herself. "It's just… I always knew you and Alex would get along well. I've been looking for an excuse to introduce you for at least the last two years."

A very telling roll of the eyes precedes, "Of _course_ you have. Honestly, Grace, if you weren't my friend…"

"I know, I know."

She's spared from having to answer any further when her phone rings from deep inside her bag. It takes a moment of digging through the pockets and the copious contents before she locates the offending device and lifts it out into her line of sight. Looking at the screen makes her chest go tight, her breath stop. Still, she makes herself press the answer button and lifts it to her ear. "Hello?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

 **...**

Tucked into the shelter of a large tree, and leaning heavily against its trunk, Boyd stares at his brother as he approaches, sees the hands shoved in his pockets against the cold as Andrew takes brisk steps around the park path, leather jacket done up to the thick wool scarf wrapped around his neck, heavy winter boots crunching in the snow that's more icy chunks than fluffy flakes now.

It's not the same park as yesterday. This one is a little more central between their respective homes, smaller and generally rather quieter, and has a bench tucked away in a knot of trees that most people seem to walk past and never notice. It's been an on-and-off meeting place for the pair of them since they were much, much younger.

Andrew's face changes as he gets nearer, and Boyd can see the moment when he realises that something really is wrong with his little brother. Really, really wrong. That there is a crisis of epic proportions looming. He opens his mouth, only a few feet away now, and before the words are even out, Boyd knows what they will be.

"Peter, what's the matter?"

The exact tone, the exact words. It's a replica of their childhood and all the times when things went wrong, when he was struggling to cope or deal with whatever was going on. It hits Boyd straight in the stomach, and he crumbles. Shears straight in two, folding at the waist as he staggers away from the tree, sinking down onto the bench just as he feels the tears break free.

He can't speak, he can't breathe; he can't do anything. He's been walking for what feels like hours in a daze, struggling to process what has happened, and it's only now, hearing his brother's voice, that something shatters the wall inside him and lets reality come barging in.

Boyd hardly ever cries. Has only broken down and really sobbed once in at least the last twenty-odd years. Didn't even cry when their mother smiled gently at him, wheezed her last breath, and passed peacefully away, her fingers going limp in his own. But then, that was coming. He expected it. Was prepared for it.

Face pressed into his palms, elbows resting on his knees, he barely feels Andrew settle beside him on the bench, but he _does_ feel the firm hand of solidarity that comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing carefully.

Andrew doesn't say anything, just sits and waits as the storm passes through. He knows as well as Boyd does that there will be no words between them until Boyd is spent, until all the anguish built up inside has found its way out. It was the same when they played squash; whatever was troubling him, or had him in a rage, or lost in the depths of gloom, the game would thunder along until Boyd had released all his pent up emotions and regained the ability to speak.

Sometimes words weren't even necessary and the game was all he needed; other times they would discuss whatever had happened as men do, pragmatically and bluntly.

Luke.

Dead and cold on the pathologists table, and so, so perfectly still.

The tears dripping from his eyes to his son's face as he held him, tried to gather him up in his arms just as he had done when the boy was a baby, a young lad in need of comfort.

Grace.

Almost as still and waxy in bed beside him, the spark in her blue eyes cruelly extinguished.

Without warning, he's caught in the paralysing grip of memory, all his senses engaged in the overwhelming onslaught.

 _He's too warm, that's what wakes him. Somehow, her extra blankets have migrated across the bed to cover him as well, and the sickly tug of a heat headache is building in the depths of his skull as he struggles out of a deep slumber, carefully kicking the quilt aside to let the cooler air of the bedroom bathe his skin in much needed relief._

 _He lies still for a while, listening to the sounds of the house creaking, the rare silence beyond the window that only ever occurs in the very deepest hours of the night. The room isn't totally dark, and as he adjusts to wakefulness he can pick out the shadows, the pieces of furniture, the pattern on the curtains. Rolling over, he looks for Grace, buried beneath the mound of bedding, but she's invisible. He was dreaming about her, he remembers. About what it would feel like to be buried inside her, to have her body pinned beneath his, naked and flushed with the heat of passion, and, as he thrust long and slow, drawing it out, intent on pleasuring her, to see her eyes full of the stormy wildness he's so far only seen hints of in better moments._

 _He's still hard, the remnants of that dream still vivid enough that he debates getting up, going to the bathroom to quietly finish what his subconscious sleeping mind started. Sitting up, he stretches his back and then gently peels away the quilt, searching for her. She's face down, head twisted awkwardly, most of her features buried in the pillows. Instinct makes him lean down to brush a kiss against her temple, wanting the scent of her in his nose before he quietly slips out of bed to go and deal with his rebellious biology._

 _He pauses mid-movement though, because no matter how much he strains, he can't hear the soft, breathy squeak of her breathing that he fell asleep to, can't even detect any sign of movement at all. And that's when he knows something is very, very wrong._

 _She's so still, in fact, that for a terrible, terrible moment he actually believes the very thing he's most afraid of has happened while he was sleeping. While he wasn't able to help her._

 _Frozen, he stares down at her, a feeling so intense, so terrible, welling inside him that he's sure his heart might actually stop, is positive he might just be about to implode._

 _She can't be… he thinks, mind going blank with terror at the thought of it. She just_ can't _._

 _Not now…_

 _It takes every scrap of everything he has in him to steel himself, to summon the courage required. Chest leaden, any notion of ardour stripped ruthlessly from his mind, he reaches for her pyjama clad shoulder, intent on trying to rouse her. There are scant inches between his face and hers, and he bends closer and then flinches the second his lips actually touch her skin, the whisper meant for her ears dying its own death in his throat._

 _Heat blazes where his skin meets hers, feels as though it is burning him too, even from the slightest touch. Boyd recoils in shock, staring down in brutally cold confusion for a moment. It wears off quickly and he slips a hand between the pillows and her head, resting his palm against her forehead before gasping at just how hot and dry her skin feels. "Grace?" he murmurs, low down, close to her ear again. Louder, more insistent this time. "Grace!"_

 _There's no response. Nothing. When he shakes her shoulder, her body flops around without any resistance. Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Boyd reaches over her, turns on the light. Chokes when he sees how ashen and grey she is._

" _Grace?" he implores. "Talk to me…"_

 _She doesn't. She doesn't react in any way as he yanks the bedclothes away and rolls her briskly onto her back. There's no resistance, no movement of any kind other than what he creates. Grace is dangerously hot, he knows, and a part of his mind wonders how she's gone from mild, cold-like symptoms at bedtime to this in the space of a few short hours, but it's only a small part. Most of his concentration is on finding her pulse; it's there. It's weak and slow, but it is still there._

 _He shakes her again, and then, when nothing happens, he rubs his knuckles briskly over her collarbone. The pain of the motion does nothing, and that's when he really starts to panic. Pillows pushed unceremoniously aside, he tilts her head, listens for her breath, watches her chest. Sees the tiniest rise and fall there. It's not natural, and it scares him deeply. He shakes her harder, determined to wake her, but nothing happens._

" _Grace," he all-but shouts, begging her to wake up._

 _She doesn't._

 _Somehow the phone is in his hand and he's asking for help, terror he can't hear in his tone._

" _Ambulance service, what's your emergency?"_

" _My partner," he chokes, fumbling the words. "I can't wake her up."_

" _Is she breathing?" the voice at the other end of the line asks, effortlessly calm. It shocks him back into himself, that calm. Reminds him that he knows how to deal with this._

" _Yes, but it's very shallow, not normal. She's burning up – her skin is hot and dry to the touch."_

" _What's your address?"_

 _Boyd rattles it off, jumps off the bed and flicks on the overhead light, runs downstairs to unlock to front door._

" _What's her name?"_

" _Grace. Grace Foley. She just finished her second round of chemotherapy a week and a bit ago," he explains, taking the stairs two at a time as he hurries back to the bedroom. "She had the beginnings of a cold earlier today – was sneezing and sniffling."_

" _Okay. And what is she being treated for?"_

 _He's about to reply as his eyes fall on the woman he's so afraid for again and he sees her chest fall as she exhales, but then she doesn't inhale again. "She's not breathing," he informs the woman on the other end of the line as he presses the speaker button and drops the phone beside him as he sinks down onto the bed. "Don't do this to me, Grace," he begs, tilting her head back and pinching her nose. "You promised me."_

" _Sir, what I need you to do," begins the woman._

" _I know," interrupts Boyd, "I'm doing it. She still has a pulse – can you count the breaths for me?" He needs the rhythm, the reassurance. He needs the other voice to guide him through this so that he doesn't lose track. Lips sealed over Grace's, he breathes for her, fighting back the unrelenting terror that he's too late, that she's already gone._

" _Come on, beautiful," he urges between breaths. "Open your eyes, smile at me."_

" _The ambulance is on its way to you. They're travelling as fast as they can on blue lights."_

 _It's a standard response, he knows. He worked in the control room as the incident manager for a while when he was an inspector. It doesn't help. He worked in firearms, too, as a PC and then a sergeant. Long before he went down the detective route. He has the highest level of driver training, knows how long it takes to get places in a powerful car when there are no speed limits. Knows how slow big, bulky ambulances are in comparison. Vividly remembers overtaking an ambulance on a blue light run not that long ago, arriving at the scene a full ten minutes before his green-uniformed colleagues did._

 _Ten minutes might be too much tonight. And if it is…_

 _He can't think about it. Doesn't want to think about it, because without her…_

 _He's shaking with the effort of holding himself together, so much so that he doesn't hear the approach, isn't aware that those green uniforms have arrived until they spill into the bedroom in a clatter of boots and bags of heavy equipment._

" _Keep doing what you're doing," says the smaller of the two, unzipping her bag. Boyd does as he's told, doesn't realise the call-taker has hung up. He stays exactly where he is as the woman leans over the bed, attaching leads and wires, tries to get a read out on her machine. The taller woman gestures for him to move, so he does, stumbling backwards as she takes his place._

 _They are so calm, the pair of them. Quietly in control of the situation as they coax Grace's body to keep working, putting a tube down her throat to breathe for her._

 _To breathe for her…_

 _Fuck._

 _Boyd feels sick. Starts to shiver and shake as he stares at the dull, lifeless way Grace is just lying there, eyes closed, body limp._

 _The taller woman's eyes flick towards him as he leans against the wall, out of their way, and it's only then that he remembers he's standing there without a stitch on. Heat floods into his cheeks and he turns away hurriedly, gaze casting about for a quick solution._

 _Clothes, clothes…_

 _His scrambled mind struggles to supply him with the information he needs to remedy the situation. Eventually though, his eyes solve it for him._

 _There's a pile of laundry beside him, waiting to be put away. Mechanically, he pulls on clean boxers and socks, a fresh tee-shirt. He finally remembers that his jeans are slung over the chair and he tugs them on, loads the pockets with his wallet, warrant card, change and phone. A sweater follows, swiftly tugged over his head; the colours clash, but he doesn't notice. His jacket is downstairs, so are his shoes. He tries to fix them in his memory for when they descend to the ground floor._

" _Where did you learn how to give rescue breaths?" asks the tall paramedic, sparing him another glance as the two of them begin to prepare Grace for transport._

 _Boyd stares blankly at her until the question penetrates through the thick fog clouding his mind. "Po…" he coughs, and then swallows, clearing his throat. "Police."_

 _The smaller woman looks over at him, gives a gentle smile of reassurance. "Well, it's a good thing. You probably saved her life."_

" _She was okay when we went to bed," he croaks, his voice breaking. "Just a bit of a cold. I don't understand how this happened. I woke up and I thought… I thought she was gone…"_

 _His cheeks are wet with silent tears, but he doesn't know it._

" _What's your name?"_

" _Peter."_

 _The smaller woman, the older of the two, he guesses, gestures for him to approach. He does, takes Grace's hand and strokes her fingers, feels his gaze fixate on the monitor leads stuck to her torso, the way her pyjama top is lying open, baring her chest._

" _She's not well," they tell him, "but she's still here."_

" _Oh, Grace," he sighs, lifting the small hand still in his to his lips and brushing his lips slowly, lingeringly over her palm. Pulling back he frowns, looks at the small gash his lips felt, sees the angry red puffiness surrounding it. Feels his heart catch at the way it is weeping, infection burning within. How did he not notice this before? How –_

"Peter!"

Andrew's voice is raised, insistent. Drags him back to the present where he blinks in surprise, in confusion.

"Talk to me. Where did you just go?" Andrew is calm, a comforting presence.

The words leave him without thought. "I thought she was dead."

"What?"

Boyd swallows, feels the ache of the agonising memory pulling at his mind, his bones, his weary body. "I woke up in the middle of the night, and I thought she was dead. Right there in bed beside me – I thought she was gone."

"Shit. _Peter_ …" Andrew trails away into silence, says nothing more. Just waits patiently.

It was months ago now, but Christ is it still just as raw and as painful as it was that night. The terror of it has never gone away. Stalks him when he lies down at night and surrenders to sleep, harasses him when he's at work and he has a few spare minutes to himself. "She was so still, I couldn't wake her. I realised she was breathing, but it wasn't right – like each breath cost her all she had. And then, right there in front of my eyes, she just stopped."

"When was this? Recently?"

The shake of his head seems to clear some of the horror away. "No. Ages ago."

"Right, I see. What did you do?"

"I breathed for her. Until the ambulance arrived. She was on a ventilator for two days; on the third day they managed to wean her off it, but she didn't properly come out of the fever haze she was in until day five."

Beside him his brother sighs heavily, but can't seem to find the right words.

"She has the most beautiful eyes, Andrew," Boyd continues, thinking of that impossible blue and smiling, though it is a flat, sad smile. "And I thought I would never see her open them again."

"But she did."

"She did. Somehow, she does it every time." It's remarkable how she does, thinks Boyd, but it doesn't stop him from feeling a bitter, invasive chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the air around them.

"Every time?" There's a hint of something in his voice, and as he speaks Andrew studies him carefully, eyes searching. "What's been going on, Peter?" he finally asks.

So Boyd tells him. Tells him all of it. Almost all of it.

How, just as he'd told her he would be, he was there when she came round from the anaesthetic, her eyes a tangled muddle of confusion and agony as he took her hand and promised her it would be okay, that he would look after her. How over the next couple of days she didn't get back up on her feet as expected, wasn't ready for release after just a few days, instead descending further and further into a drug induced fog of complications as the doctors and nurses tried to stabilise her, fighting nature and biology for almost two weeks before he was finally able to take her home, battered, bruised and exhausted.

How the brutal regime of chemotherapy started soon after, leading to endless days and nights of sickness and nausea, crippling fatigue and loss of appetite, weight and hair, and pain. Dark humour became a staple between them, the only way to deal with the horrific things happening to her body as they became accustomed to living together, to accepting and returning each other's love. Practicality and pragmatism grew in place of heady romance as they navigated together through the embarrassment and awkwardness of it all; not what either of them had imagined, hoped for. Not at all what the first few months of a new relationship should be.

How the smallest of accidents led to him waking that night to find her so close to death's door. She recovered slowly, made her way into the next cycle and then he caught a mild cold, which went straight to her chest and developed into pneumonia that had him calling for help on a Saturday afternoon as she lay on the sofa shivering and coughing without pause, gasping for air and gradually getting so much worse that he couldn't stand it, that he became so afraid of what might happen again. He was right, too, because the out-of-hours doctor moved her up to the top of his list of patients, arrived within the hour and then decreed she had to return to hospital. Dehydrated, unable to keep anything down, sweating from the fever and shaking with cold, she looked the picture of utter misery and Boyd had sat with her lying in his lap as they waited for transport, trying his best to soothe her as she fought off tears at the thought of spending yet more time under the care of the doctors and nurses, being poked, prodded and monitored continuously.

How she then staggered her way through the rest of treatment, gritty determination awing him, even on her birthday when she was hideously sick and spent the better part of the day holed up in the bathroom. He vividly remembers hoping she would be well enough that he could cook a nice dinner for them both, light a few candles, kiss her softly and slowly as night crept in, but instead he ended up lying on the bed beside her, scanning through paperwork and stroking her back gently as she buried her face in the pillow and dozed fitfully.

How she seemed to finally be picking up, gaining back a little of her spark when suddenly the anaemia hit and she was left as weak a new-born kitten, unable to get up and down stairs without crawling and resting halfway, unable to stand for more than a few moments at a time, unable to walk any distance whatsoever. How the few days they spent together immediately after she received the blood transfusion in A&E are some of his favourite memories so far; five days uninterrupted time together, no other people or things to worry about, just hours and hours to be with one another.

And then, how over Christmas she was so very, very ill. Again. How he thought, _really_ thought, that she would die in his arms as he sat on her bed and held her as she dreamt of things that made no sense and sobbed endless heart wrenching tears for hours, wearing herself down little by little, completely unaware of anything or anyone, becoming weaker and weaker, her body feeling limper and heavier as the hours passed by until she stopped moving or making any sound at all and he honestly believed she was about to slip away.

There was a nurse, older, warm and maternal, who walked in and found him, his face buried in Grace's hair. His distinctly remembers the touch of her hand on his shoulder, the smile on her face as she pointed to the machines, explained how there was a hint of improvement. "She's fighting," she promised him, and then showed him what to watch for, dragged in a chair that was actually comfortable, and gave him a pillow and blanket. Let him spend the night beside the bed, Grace's hand in his as he watched the very slow change unfold as it all began to turn around.

"Peter…" Andrew can't find the words as he gets to the end of his story, and Boyd shrugs. He doesn't know what to say either, and the compassion, the sadness in his brother's eyes… it hurts. He doesn't think it should, but it does.

Hands clasped in his lap, he looks down at his knuckles, so white with the cold, and then digs the gloves out of his pocket that he should have thought of earlier. That Grace would have reminded him of, her mischievous smile reaching her eyes as well as her lips. "It's been endless. Every complication under the sun, she's had it, and each time it's taken more out of her, made it harder to recover. She's never had a chance to really build up some strength because each time she gets past one problem, another one develops. It's horrible to watch. Agonising."

"I can't even imagine," is the gentle reply.

"I can't… oh God, Andrew," his voice breaks, the words sounding like a desperate sob as he continues. "There's nothing I can do to help her. To make her feel better. I would do anything to fight this for her, or even just to take away some of the burden, to make it easier, but I can't. There is _nothing_ I can do. And now…"

Gripped by despair, unable to continue speaking, Boyd falls forwards, burying his head in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. His entire body is tense, feels old and exhausted. His chest is leaden, the air there like soup as it makes its way painfully in and out of his lungs. His head aches fiercely, his eyes burn with tears that want to break free but that he stubbornly resists. _Tries_ to resist. Surely he's already cried enough, surely?

He hasn't, it seems.

He can't even say the words. Can't explain to his brother why they are sitting here on this bench in the freezing cold. Instead he feels the heat of the hated, silent tears slowly leaking out of his eyes and oozing hotly down his cheeks, soaking into his gloves.

Andrew rescues him, just as he always has.

"It hasn't worked, has it? That's why you called me."

Wretchedly miserable, Boyd nods into his palms.

"Oh, Peter," is the distressed sigh that meets his ears. "I'm so sorry." He doesn't try to dress it up, to use more words, and for that Boyd is incredibly grateful. Doesn't know how he would be able to bear it. He stays as he is, chest heaving with the effort of breathing through the tears.

There are no words to describe it all, no words that would make any of it even a hint better.

Andrew waits, patient as ever, and eventually Boyd feels the worst of the storm pass through, taking with it the majority of the feeling of being completely, utterly overwhelmed. In its place he feels drained. Raw, and brutally drained. Cripplingly exhausted.

"So what happens now?"

It's the obvious question, but it still makes him flinch.

" _There are no guarantees."_

That's what the doctor said to them, as they sat there in shell-shocked silence. _"These are the options, and I will tell you what I recommend, but of course, there are no guarantees."_

It sent shivers down his spine then, and he still feels bone-achingly, bitterly cold now as he lets his thoughts fall back to just a few hours ago. As he remembers looking down at the familiar hand clutching tightly at his, turning his gaze to his left where Grace sat beside him, huddled in her coat and scarf, back rigid as she stared unblinkingly at the oncologist, hanging on to his every word. Determined not to fold in front of him.

"There are two options. Grace needs to decide."

Andrew looks sideways at him, expression carefully hidden. "More treatment, or no treatment?"

Shocked out of his gloom, Boyd looks up from studying the snowy gravel at his feet. "What? _No_."

He scuffs the toes of his boots, inhales slowly. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

"More surgery and radiotherapy, or more chemo and radiotherapy."

"I see," nods his brother, and there's something he's not saying that makes Boyd feel ill.

"Giving up isn't an option," he asserts, sure he is right. He's _almost_ sure he's right.

"Okay," agrees Andrew, gently. "I wasn't questioning it, Peter, I just made an assumption. The wrong one, it seems."

She's so tired, though. So thoroughly battered and ground down. And it's all been for nothing. What if she doesn't want to keep fighting? What if the thought of going through it all again – with the outcome uncertain, no matter how optimistic her oncologist is – is just too much?

Jesus _Christ_ …

"I can't lose her, Andrew," he chokes, hands clenching in his hair and his arms covering his face as he pushes back against the bench in desperation. "I just _can't_."

There's a heavy sigh from beside him. "I know," is the quiet reply. "I could see it in the way you looked at her yesterday. And I can't even begin to imagine what it must feel like for you at the moment."

"Forget about _me_." Boyd shakes his head, unfolding himself to glare at his brother. "What about how _Grace_ is feeling?"

Andrew stares him down, as unafraid as he's always been of his younger brother's blistering temper. "We're not here to talk about how Grace is feeling," he points out calmly. "We're here for you."

For a moment, just a brief, red-eyed, boiling moment, Boyd is so angry he wants to punch the other man, but then it subsides as common sense rears its sensible head and his self-control reasserts itself. Oddly, he feels as though a weight has been lifted from him. As though all the tears have actually let something loose inside him, as if he has somehow released some of the months and months of fear and anger and tension. And Andrew has absolutely hit the nail on the head, he knows.

He needs to talk about how he's feeling, about the impact all this is having on him. He needs to bleed off some of the darkness before he self-destructs. It's a moment of self-awareness that Grace would definitely laugh at him for, and then say _I told you so_. He knows that, too.

"I've been in love with her for years," he announces, the words spilling straight out into the frosty air between them. He pauses then, considers what he's just said because it's an odd sensation to get it off his chest. "I don't know how it happened. All I remember is that I was sitting in my office one day and she was laughing with someone from the team out in the squad room, and as I looked up at her I just _knew_. I knew she was the one for me."

"Why didn't you tell her?" It's curiosity driving the question, not recrimination.

Biting his lip, Boyd thinks back over all the wasted opportunities. All the moments that could have been; stolen lunch breaks during busy days, quiet evening meals out, weekends spent lazing in each other's company. He thinks of all the things he longs for now, and realises that they could have been sharing them for a long time now. That they could have had a strong, solid, happy relationship to walk into this nightmare with, instead of trying to build one as they go.

How much of a difference would that have made, he wonders. If they already knew what a lasting relationship with one another was like? What a life together without fear felt like? If they had already built up a shared memory bank of moments and days and experiences? How much easier would it be to fight, if they knew what exactly what they were fighting to keep, not what they simply find themselves hoping for?

"I was a coward," he admits. "I thought she would never be interested in me."

"But she is."

He smiles, thinking of her sleepy face in the mornings, the way she likes to snuggle into his body and stay there, cuddled up together. "I know."

"How long did she feel the same?"

It's an interesting question. One he's never considered before, not really. "I don't know, I've never asked. But it was a while, I think."

Andrew rubs his beard thoughtfully. "So she was every bit as much of a coward as you were," he points out.

Boyd shakes his head, shame creeping in on him. "I pushed her away," he admits, the words forming in his head and then his mouth for the first time ever. Oh, he's thought about it before, but only in an abstract sort of way. Never in a concrete format, never admitting the truth to himself. "I fought with her, riled her, upset her, provoked her. I slept with other women, I drank too much, I shouted more than I ever had before, and it was all because I couldn't admit the truth to myself. I wouldn't let her help me, so I kept pushing her, and Grace… she has claws. She fights back. It was an endless, destructive cycle."

"So you're both to blame, then."

He's being a protective big brother, and Boyd loves him dearly for it, but Andrew is still wrong. Shaking his head, he continues, "No, not really. I knew that I could draw that response out of her, and in some ways I enjoyed fighting with her because it meant that she was right _there_ but I knew it was wrong and I didn't stop it. Worse, I used Luke as an excuse. I told myself that things were so bad between us because I couldn't cope with not knowing where he was."

"What changed?" it's a quiet, almost hesitant question.

"Luke… died… and I needed my best friend. Because that's what she is – she knows me better than anyone else. She understands me better than anyone else."

"So you fell into bed with her in the wake of Luke's death?"

It's a cold, brutal question, and it makes that old, ever-ready anger rear its ugly head again, but Boyd fights it down, simply shakes his head. "No, not at all. She was just my friend – she helped me through it all. Made all the arrangements with me, stayed with me when I would have drowned myself in whiskey. Told me that I would walk through the other side of it all when I would have given up, that it would never get better, but that it would get easier. She was right, too."

For a while Andrew says nothing, and eventually Boyd glances sideways at him from the corner of his eye, wondering what is going through that quiet, controlled mind. The silence finally gets the better of him, spurs him to make perhaps his biggest admission yet. "She's the other half of my heart, as stupid as that sounds. She's really is, and she's all I have left."

"Is that why you're clinging on to her so much? Because you think if you haven't got her, there's nothing left for you? Are you with her – have you convinced yourself you love her – because she needs you? Because you need someone to need you?"

The cruelty of the words is a savage blow to the stomach and Boyd's patience, what meagre scraps of it are left with the huge, crushing weight of fear that has been clinging to him for hours now, evaporates. "What the _hell_? What the _fuck's_ wrong with you, Andrew?" he roars, suddenly incandescent with rage. "Aren't you listening to a word I'm saying?"

He's on his feet and propelling himself backwards, putting feet between them. The urge to lash out is strong, and it takes everything he has to fight it, to create that distance.

Incredibly, Andrew is still calm. "Think about how this sounds for a moment, will you? Suddenly you're in a relationship with a seriously-ill woman who is all but dependant on you, only months after your son dies following years of absence, years of wondering. Can you not see that I would be stupid not to ask?"

"I've loved her for _years_ ," Boyd grinds out, teeth firmly clenched. "Yes the timing is appalling, but I haven't just grabbed hold of her because of Luke. I took the gamble and told her everything because I thought I would lose her and we might never have another chance. Because I suddenly learned the brutal lesson of what's the point of waiting, telling yourself, someday? Who cares about petty bureaucratic rules and policies. I _love_ her, Andrew. I want to spend the rest of my _life_ with her."

"Okay." Hands raised, posture apologetic, the older man backs down.

There's enough acceptance and acknowledgement in that single word reply that some of the atmosphere begins to die down, the iciness between them slowly thawing. His muscles relaxing, Boyd nevertheless stays on his feet, pacing slightly behind the trees as he mulls over the last few years and all the missed opportunities.

"I looked for excuses," he finally sighs, regret a hard and heavy burden weighing down on him.

"How so?"

"Reasons we shouldn't be together, things that could or would go wrong. I convinced myself she would never be interested, that even if she _was_ , we were too different to work as a couple. I told myself that the job would get in the way, or… anything I could think of. Anything and everything. And now I know how stupid it all was. We could have been happy together for years now. We could have a wealth of memories and experiences behind us already."

Silent again on the bench, Andrew is listening attentively. He doesn't say anything, and Boyd turns away, looks at the snow on the ground under his feet, hard and frozen and uninviting. "If she dies," he tells the icy branches of the tree in front of him, voice not much above a whisper, "we'll never have had a chance to know what it could be like for us, and that's all my fault. I don't think I can live with that."

The ground crunches as Andrew gets to his feet, moving over unbroken snow to stand beside his younger brother. "Don't think about it," he orders. "Oh, I know it's easy for me to say, but I know you, Peter – if you do, you'll obsess about it. Tell me what the consultant said. What does he think?"

Boyd knows he's right, and he nods in agreement. But he doesn't say that the thoughts have been obsessing him for months anyway, that they stalk him relentlessly in the dark hours when he's alone and afraid. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath, thinks back over the consultation that's more fear-blurred in his memory that he would ever admit to.

"He gave two options, recommended one over the other. And he was positive, optimistic, I suppose. He reckons the odds are good, but it all depends on how Grace handles it, how her body tolerates it. He said all the delays, the infections, how weakened her immune system is – it's all contributed to what's happened."

"Can they do anything to counteract all that?"

Boyd shrugs, exhausted and unsure. He feels adrift, and it's incredibly unusual. And uncomfortable. "She was on a special diet for a while initially. Now they want to do something like that again, but a bit more specific, I think."

Andrew nods, expression thoughtful. "Okay."

"It's her decision though, what she wants to do."

"Of course."

Silence falls between them once more. Then, "Do you get a say in it all?"

Boyd blinks, uncertain. "What?"

Vague, indistinct gesturing it the air between them. It irritates him.

"Whatever happens next… do you get to help decide what option it is?"

Frustration begins to build, because the question feels very much like he's being accused of something, though he doesn't know what. "We'll talk about it, I'll tell her what I think. Ask her about her reasons. Honesty is important. It's her choice though –she's the one who has to go through it." There's finality in his tone, a warning to leave it alone. A warning that's heeded.

"How does it work, exactly?" asks Andrew, changing direction.

Frowning, Boyd stares at him, nonplussed. "How does what work?"

"Your life."

Biting his tongue and mentally scolding himself for how irritable the response that doesn't actually clarify the question makes him, Boyd responds as calmly as he can. "I still don't understand what you're asking…"

"At home, what's it like? How do you cope with work and her being ill?"

"Oh. One day at a time, that's all we can do. Mainly we just deal with each obstacle as it comes. One thing after another."

"Can you make plans, go out and do things?"

It's innocent, genuine curiosity, and for that reason Boyd doesn't mind the intrusion. He shakes his head, tries not to sigh. "No. We never know from one day to the next how she will feel, and she's been so ill for weeks now, so…" He shrugs again, because what else is there to say.

"So in all this time you've never really had the opportunity for anything… romantic. Or just… time together?"

Andrew is fishing, Boyd realises. Though what for, he's not quite certain. It's not spiteful or meant with any sort of unkindness, so he doesn't allow himself to become annoyed by it. He'd be in the same position, he realises, if their situation was reversed and he knew nothing of his sibling's new life.

"We have, just not… the traditional stuff. Grace has bad days, _really_ bad days, and not so bad days. Occasionally she has good days, too. She was managing to work a little at first, but not much. A few hours a week, that sort of thing, and it was good for her, helped keep some sort of normality for a while. That all tailed off though, because she's had so many complications that she's never really recovered from. It's all just mounted up, one thing after another, sapping her strength. We don't go anywhere, so we spend all our time at home together, relaxing, just… being together."

Even to his own ears it's a woefully inadequate explanation that doesn't even begin to convey what their life is like, but Boyd just doesn't know the words, doesn't know how to explain it.

"Being together?"

The slight note of disbelief in those two words grates on him, far more than it should, and he grits his teeth before answering. "On bad days she can't even get out of bed most of the time, and if she can she sleeps most of the day away on the sofa under all the blankets she can find because she's always cold. On better days she reads a lot, manages to actually feed herself, and naps for hours at a time. In the evenings we sit together and talk. We play with the cat. We go to bed early. Half the time I have to help her up the stairs to bed, or carry her because she's so weak she can't get there herself."

"But surely that's putting all the strain on you? You go to work, you come home, and you look after her..."

"That's the reality of this disease." There's no bitterness in his tone, only blunt honesty.

"Aren't you worried that you're going to end up resenting her because you have to do everything for her?" There is concern in Andrew's face as he speaks, as he works through the implications of everything his brother is telling him.

Boyd shakes his head, but does think about his answer as he gives it. "No…" Another shake of his head. "No, it's not like that. She does manage more than she thinks; on good days she cooks and freezes stuff, so it's there for another time. She can do things that don't require much strength. She's worked on paperwork when I've brought it home from work for her."

"That's still a huge imbalance though," Andrew points out.

Boyd shrugs. "It is, I know. But it's not forever, and you're forgetting something, Andrew. I love her. More than _anything_. All I want is for her to get better so we can have and do all the things we've been dreaming about. So what if I have to be the strong one for now, the one who does more? It'll even out in the end."

There's a hint of scepticism behind the next words that fall between them. "And you don't think she might get better, and then disappear once she no longer needs someone to care for her and help her?"

The flash of anger is instant once again and it boils with a fury that quite literally takes his breath away. Yet again he has to stand up and pace away, keeping his back to his brother until he has himself under control, because the urge to let loose a torrent of seething ire is near overwhelming. Twice in one conversation. Clearly he is struggling a _lot_ more than he thought he was. Reaching out, as much as he hates himself for the weakness, was absolutely the right thing to do. He knows it. And Grace would tell him so, if she knew. Will tell him so later, when she finds out where he's been.

Slowly, eventually, he calms. He turns his thoughts to her and the things she's told him, explained to him, and it helps. So much.

"You don't understand," he explains at last. "It's not as unequal as it sounds. Grace might be physically unable to do much right now, but she helps me in other ways. Talking to her, listening to her… she helps me with all the dark shadows that have been plaguing me for years. It's…" he pauses, doesn't want to go into detail about all the things that stalk him, try to destroy him. "It's a balance, just not one that's easy to see."

"If you say so." Slightly but not deliberately dubious. And a flame waved perilously close to the match that's just waiting to be lit.

Boyd clenches his teeth, balls his hands into tight fists inside his pockets. "You don't know her," he grinds out. "That's a hell of a judgement to make based solely on one conversation."

"You're right," agrees Andrew, "I don't know her. But I can tell you based on what I'm hearing from you that I have a lot of concerns. For _you_."

" _Me_?"

"Yes, you. You look like shit. Exhausted in a lot more than just a few late nights kind of way. You look… unhealthy. Like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"What do you fucking expect?" Boyd snaps back. "I've spent _months_ thinking the person that means more to me than anything else in the world is going to be taken from me. That I'm going to have to watch her die without having a chance with her."

"That's not healthy, and you know it. Is she really worth it, Peter?"

"You don't know her," he roars again, searing rage breaking through as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, forgetting the gloves and knocking the too-long strands askew. It's gone as quickly as it came, that rage, and he slumps down onto the bench, spent. "When you do…" Words fail him, because he just doesn't know how to explain the way he and Grace are. How they just fit together.

"Okay."

It's a simple response, one that sounds mostly understanding. One that sounds finally convinced. There's still a hint of something there though, but Boyd doesn't push it. He doesn't expect anyone to understand, not where he and Grace are concerned. The two of them have always clicked on a level that mystifies people, and he's not going to try and explain that. He loves her, she loves him, and for them that's enough. For them, it works.

"I'm sorry for pushing you." It's delivered with the typical kindness Boyd has always associated with his brother, that he has been missing for the last few minutes.

"Then why did you?"

The other man presses his lips together tightly for a moment before answering. "When I saw the state of you that day at your house, just before Christmas… I just… well, I needed to be sure."

"And you couldn't just take my word?" It bites, rather more than it really ought to that he evidently couldn't.

Andrew sighs heavily, suddenly seems older that he is as grief and guilt creep into his eyes. "If Luke hadn't died so recently, I would," he confesses.

"It's been well over a year and a half," Boyd points out. "Getting close to two years. It was over a year before Grace was even diagnosed…"

"I know, it's…" Andrew looks up at the sky, now a misty whitish-grey. More snow will fall later, probably. "In the weeks afterwards we thought you… Well, dad's dead, and I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't try to look out for you. He would come back and haunt me if I didn't keep my promise to him."

The older sibling. Now head of the family.

Boyd gets it. Understanding dawning, he relaxes and nods. "Okay," he agrees, prepared to let it go.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Suddenly feeling cooped up, Boyd stretches, starts to pace again. "Want to walk a little bit?"

"Sure."

So they walk, feet stepping in the hard, compacted snow that's a danger underfoot as they follow the path around the large open space dotted with heaps and mounds, some of which are more artistic and carefully decorated than others. Branches form arms, rocks and bottle caps eyes and noses. Oddly though, despite the hour, there are few people about. A couple of dog walkers, some hardy-looking pigeons pecking about by the bins strategically placed adjacent to the handful of picnic benches, and a few children half-heartedly throwing snowballs at the far end of the park.

"Where _is_ Grace, Peter?" asks Andrew suddenly, as if it's the most obvious question in the world.

He supposes it is, really. After the earth shattering blow they were dealt thins morning, it would make a lot of sense for them to be together somewhere. And yet they're not…

"I don't know," he admits, throat suddenly tight and weirdly obstructed. He coughs, swallows hard. Breathes. "I think she's probably at home, but she could be anywhere."

"Why are you here, then?" Andrew isn't judging him, Boyd knows. He just wants him to make the admission that hurts so, so much.

"Because I couldn't stay."

"Why?"

Guilt burns hotter than he would have ever thought possible. "I didn't know what to say, what to think. We thought… we really thought it would be good news. But it wasn't. I sat through it all with her and I held it together, but the moment we got home…" He trails off and shivers, biting his lip in shame. "I looked at her and all I could think was…"

A hand lands on his arm. Comfort. Solidarity.

"It's okay, you don't need to tell me. I can guess. It's not cowardice, either. We all have limits, we all need support."

"I know," he admits, because if nothing else, he's realised that hard lesson today. "But I can't talk about it. Not now."

Andrew shrugs, the gesture entirely passive. "And you don't have to. All things in their own time, Peter."

"If you say so."

"We'll work through it," his brother promises. "Bleed off the poison bit by bit, when you're ready. You can't keep bottling it all up, not if you want to help Grace."

"I know that too," he acknowledges, wryly.

"Good. Now, unless you have something else that you desperately need to talk about, I suggest we both go home and reconvene at the usual in a couple of days. I don't know about you, but I'm bloody freezing, and starving."

For the first time all day, Boyd laughs. Straightforward, honest pragmatism. That's his brother in a nutshell. "Sounds good to me," he agrees.

"All right then. The squash court, day after tomorrow, ten a.m. Deal?"

"Deal," agrees Boyd, offering his hand. They shake, and then Andrew grabs him in a tight hug.

"Hang in there, mate," he whispers. "And don't keep bottling it all up. That's what I'm here for, remember that."

"I will," promises Boyd, and he means it. Andrew has just reminded him of why the two of them have always been so close. They say their goodbyes, and Boyd watches his brother walk away towards the street. He feels lighter, just a little better. Like he can actually think straight again.

Taking a deep breath he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He can just about manage to dial the number he wants without taking his gloves off, and that's definitely a good thing. The temperature is suddenly dropping, and quickly. The snow, it seems, really is coming back.

"Hello?" Quiet, wary. Painfully hesitant.

"Hi…" There's a long, awkward pause, then he offers an even more awkward, "You okay? Or as okay as you can be right now?"

Another pause. A soft sigh, and then a careful, "Yeah. You?"

He's completely honest. Has to be. "Could be better."

"Me too."

"Where are you?"

"The Body Farm."

"What… _Why_?" He panics, feels a tide of things assault him; corpses, insects, disease, horror… Fighting it back, he throws up an iron wall against it all. "No, forget it. I don't want to know. Want me to come and pick you up?"

"Please." Still quiet, but fairly steady. It helps soothe him just a little.

Closing his eyes for a second, he imagines her smile. The way she looks at him when she first wakes, befuddled with sleep. Gently promises, "I'm on my way."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

 **…**

Sitting in Eve's Land Rover with the heating on full and a blanket wrapped tightly around her to counteract the glacial chill that is accompanying the falling darkness, Grace sees Boyd before he sees her. Eve flashes the car's headlights to let him know where they are, and then the dark Audi is pulling up smoothly at the side of the road.

"Thanks, Eve," murmurs Grace, pulling the blanket from her shoulders and folding it neatly.

Her friend smiles warmly. "Anytime. And I mean that, understand?"

She nods. "Yes."

"Good."

"Have a nice time tonight," offers Grace, grinning.

Eve's eyes twinkle with mischief. "I fully intend to," she replies.

Laughter escaping her lips, Grace leans over to kiss the other woman's cheek. "See you soon," she says, returning the awkward embrace the close confines of the vehicle necessitate.

"You will," agrees Eve. "Don't forget what we talked about," she urges.

Fingers curling around the door handle, Grace pauses and shakes her head. "I won't," she promises. "Bye, Eve."

"Bye."

She shivers instantly, out in the frigid air. Snow is falling again, and though the flakes are lazy and beautiful, they are also thick and fluffy; the promise of a real snowfall. Sliding in next to Boyd she discovers that he has already activated the heated seat for her, and that her chair is toasty warm as she sinks into it. Sighing happily, she turns to look at him.

His eyes are heavily guarded, that's the first thing she picks up on. The second is that he's feeling every bit as unsure as she is. And no wonder, too. They arrived home from the appointment and within half an hour he was apologising, a ramble of illogical and unconnected words as he disappeared out the door without so much as telling her where he was going.

He's expecting her to be angry with him, she realises. Or at the very least, upset.

She's neither. She understands completely; needed that very same distance and chance to get out of the claustrophobic aftermath of the appointment herself. After all, neither of them were expecting… what happened to happen. Not really.

"You okay?" he asks, and his tone is so hesitant that it claws at her.

"Tired," she says, which is the first thing that comes to mind. It's true though, and as Boyd puts the vehicle in gear and begins to drive in the direction of home, she realises just _how_ true it is.

Everything aches unpleasantly. Perhaps it really wasn't a good idea to walk the very long walk from the end of her public transport route to the Body Farm earlier. The car is toasty warm, though, the heat beneath her sinking pleasantly into her abused muscles and as they make progress towards home she feels her eyes begin to slide shut, despite her best intentions.

A gentle hand on her shoulder rouses her from her doze. "Grace?"

"Mmm?" She's groggy, drowsy and disoriented.

"We're home."

"Okay," she mutters, eyes still closed. Somehow, her body hurts more than it did before she fell asleep.

Boyd's insistent though. "Come on, wake up. We need to get inside and then you can have a proper nap."

Groaning, she forces her eyes open and fumbles for the seatbelt release. There's a lot of snow on the ground, that's her first thought as she twists sideways and her boots land ankle deep in the stuff with that tell-tale crunch. It's coming down thick and fast now, sticking to her skin in tiny, piercingly cold flakes as she takes the offered hand and lets herself be pulled upright. She's too tired to achieve that on her own, she knows.

Boyd puts an arm around her waist, escorts her to the front door. She leans heavily on him, part because she's bone-achingly tired, and part because he's there and she can. And she wants to.

He reaches for the key, and then both of them hear the loud, insistent cries coming from behind the heavy wooden panel in front of them. Boyd looks down just as Grace looks up; she sees his eyebrows lift in surprise.

"We've never left her alone for so long before," Grace realises.

Just one of his eyebrows quirk this time. "How long have you been out?" he asks.

"Since five minutes after you left. I couldn't breathe inside the house."

Beside her he tenses, his movements faltering as he tries to insert the key into the lock. "I'm sorry," he whispers, stilling completely.

Her arm is around him, too, and Grace clenches her gloved hand into his coat. "Don't," she orders, voice wavering. "I need to sleep, I can't…"

The arm still holding her upright tightens, and she feels him rest his head against hers for a second, before he seems to recover himself and finishes opening the door.

Freyja is beside herself. Voicing that high-pitched thin, pathetic cry over and over again as they enter, she twines around their legs and almost trips them both. Struggling out of her coat, Grace hangs it up and then sinks down onto the second to last step of the stairs.

"What's all this?" she asks quietly as their small feline immediately climbs into her lap and stands up, planting her front paws on Grace's shoulder before thrusting that sweet whiskery face into hers. Purring for all she's worth, Freyja is still crying, loudly and repeatedly. "It's okay," soothes Grace, stroking her hands over that silky fur.

"Did you think we weren't coming back?" asks Boyd. His own coat hung up and his shoes replaced with his slippers, he crouches down in front of Grace and tickles the cat's sides. Quick as a flash, she's jumped into his lap and is up on her back legs again, forepaws on his chest as she rams her face into his, still meowing.

"Oh, I see how it is," sighs Grace. "You're a real daddy's girl, aren't you Frey'?"

Boyd smirks and gets to his feet, the cat standing in his arms. "Absolutely she is," he declares triumphantly. "Come on, little one," he says. "Let's go and get you some crunchies, shall we?"

"Soft touch," Grace calls after him. It takes just about everything she has left in her to get to her feet, clinging tightly to the bannister as she does so. The stairs yawn up and away from her, and she shuts her eyes, orders herself not to think about it as she begins to climb based on memory alone.

It's not a good idea, but it's only when she opens them again as she nears the top that she stumbles heavily and pitches forwards; her wrist and shins taking the brunt of the fall, instant pain knocking the wind out of her. Biting back a yell of agony, and an uncontrolled spike of fury, she lies completely still for a moment, trying to gather herself, waiting for the initial blaze to settle into a more manageable burn.

 _Why is it all just so_ endless _?_ she silently rages. _Why do simple things always have to go wrong?_ Breathing through it, she's just about at the point where she can assess the damage when she hears him.

" _Jesus Christ_." Angry. Frustrated.

Grace clenches her eyes shut again, fighting off a sudden wave of hot tears that threaten to overtake her. She will not cry in front of him, she orders herself. Not now.

He's up the steps in a flash, hands gentle as they touch her, run over her body.

"What hurts?" he asks, concerned.

"Everything," she mutters, not sure where the sudden surge of rebelliousness comes from.

Boyd sighs. "Not helpful, Grace."

It's true though. She doesn't remember most of it but the walk to the body farm was long and cold. _Too_ long and cold. "My wrist," she tells him, wincing as she tries to flex the stinging joint, "and my legs will be bruised." Summoning some strength she begins to move, and then lets out an involuntary yelp as her left knee straightens and she realises for the first time that it was also involved in her fall.

Almost instantly strong arms fasten around her from behind, lifting her clear of the steps. Boyd carries her straight to the bathroom, and Grace finds herself grinding her teeth in anger. This is getting ridiculous, she wants to scream. Breathing slowly, she forces herself to remain calm. It's not _his_ fault, and he's only doing what he thinks is best. She's overtired and she made a mistake – that's all. If anything, she's to blame. It's her emotions that are rioting, her stubborn independence that's telling her she should be able to manage.

"Show me," he commands, as he sets her down on the edge of the bath, but it's only because the words are gentle and come from love, not some form of caveman dominance that she does. Her wrist is swelling and her knee hurts to bend. Gingerly, she pulls back the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the damage.

Boyd sighs, and soaks a flannel in cold water, wringing it out and wrapping it around the swelling. Grace hisses at the touch, but after a few seconds the cold begins to help. Staring at the damp material she tries to fight of the building sensation of being pathetic, useless. It's a futile exercise.

Kneeling in front of her, Boyd eases off her left boot, briefly examining the toe and seeing the fresh scuff mark there. "Caught your foot on the steps?"

Too tired to care, Grace just nods. She watches mutely as he carefully eases off the other boot, and then grits her teeth and pushes herself to her feet, unfastening her trousers and awkwardly pushing them down over her hips with one hand. Her thighs visibly tremble with the effort of standing, and as she shifts onto one foot to step out of the fabric, they give way completely.

"Christ," mutters Boyd, catching her. He sets her back on the edge of the bath, this time making sure she's leaning against the wall for support, too. It takes everything she has left in her for Grace not to snap at him to leave it, to forget about any injuries and just let her sleep. It's becoming an almighty struggle just to keep her eyes open, let alone answer him as he speaks to her.

Long grazes mar her shins, and as Boyd examines first one then the other, Grace stares dully at them. The skin is a mess, but it's oozing rather than bleeding, for the most part. The kind of injury that stings a lot but will scab over and heal of its own accord. Hopefully.

"It's not too bad," is the calm appraisal. "Though it looks like it hurts."

"Mm," is the best she can manage, head resting back against the tiles above the bath.

He's staring at her, she can feel it, but Grace doesn't open her eyes. It's too much like effort.

"Why are you so tired?" he asks, and though the question is gentle and far from accusatory, she still wants to scowl.

She doesn't. That's too much effort, too.

"Grace? How did you get to the Body Farm?"

He won't let it go, she knows. Forces herself to mumble the words. "Tube, and then walked."

"You _walked_?" It's a horrified whisper-shout. She knows why. There's a reason they drive out to Eve's lair whenever they need to visit, rather than taking public transport. "That's bloody _miles_ , Grace. And in the freezing cold, as well." His hands land on her trembling thighs, squeezing slightly. She can feel the dismay in him. "Why would you do that? What on _earth_ were you thinking?"

It's too much, it really is. Sitting up, she glares at him. "I _wasn't_ thinking," she snarls. "I don't even remember walking there, or why I went there. I just… did."

"Fuck's _sake_ ," he glowers, raking a hand through his hair. "Of all the stupid, crazy – "

He doesn't mean it to be nasty, or harsh, a small part of her knows, but it's been a horrendous day and she's reached her absolute limits, both physically, and mentally. Forcing herself to her feet, she takes a step, determined to get out of the cramped, enclosed confines of the bathroom, and then promptly falls again, straight into his arm.

"You can't," he begins, but she pushes away from him, enraged. She hits the sink, and then lurches for the door, colliding painfully with the frame but somehow managing to cling on and stay upright.

Boyd's on his feet in an instant and right behind her. "Grace, what the hell are you – "

"Leave me alone, Peter," she snaps, fury boiling through her. "I don't fucking _care_ about a few grazes. I just want to _sleep_." She bounces off doorframes and various bits of furniture, and she has to lean on the wall all the way there, but somehow Grace manages to get herself to the bedroom. She tries to slam the door behind her, but she hasn't the strength and instead it just clatters loudly to. Tears in her eyes, she collapses onto the mattress and curls into a ball, tugging the blankets over herself and burying her face in the quilt beneath her.

It smells of him and her. It smells of _them_.

It smells of everything she thought she was finally going to get.

…

 _It's dusk outside, the bright, cheerful rays of the sun disappearing over the horizon as darkness creeps in, but the window is open, the warm, early summer breeze wafting in._

 _It's the same hospital room he first came to visit her in, and Grace shivers as she watches the scene in front of her._

 _She's lying on the bed, resting on her side, and she looks awful. Hideous. Skin grey and waxy, hair and eyebrows missing, face sunken, body little more than a skeleton covered with flesh. Every spark of life and happiness has been beaten out of her. Forever._

 _Most of the traditional hospital machinery has been pushed aside, but there's a drip in her arm. Morphine. Pain management._

 _It's clearly not enough._

 _Boyd is leaning on the bed, his elbows forming dents in the mattress. He's holding one of her hands in his while he strokes her cheek with the other, gazing at her like he's drinking her in, trying to burn the image of her, the feel of her, into his brain._

 _He looks beaten, defeated. Old._

 _He too has lost weight, though not as much as she has. He looks weary to the bone, like everything around him is in ruins. Like he's given everything he had, and lost because it just wasn't enough._

 _She will take that image, the guilt that burns through her because of it, to the grave with her._

" _It's okay, Grace," he's telling her, his face inches from hers. "Just let go. I'm here, and I love you more than anything, but don't make yourself suffer any more."_

 _She can see how much the words cost him, how tightly he seems to be clinging on to his very last moments with her, because that's what these are, she knows. Their very last moments together._

 _On the bed, she's staring at him unblinkingly. She can't give him any words, can't tell him how much she loves him, or how much it means that he's here, that he's never left her side. That he's stayed with her through all the long, painful months._

 _She can't tell him, either, how agonisingly sorry she is that he's had to go through it all, had to watch her slowly surrender to this insidious disease. How sorry she is that they will never have their promised forever together, that she will die and he will go on without her, with only a handful memories and grief. How sorry she is that she couldn't fight hard enough._

 _No, all she can do is offer the tiniest squeeze of her fingers in his._

 _He kisses her then, slowly and delicately, his lips lingering on hers before he repeats just how much he adores her, how he's never loved anyone as much as he does her. Urges her to relax and go to sleep. Promises he won't leave her._

 _Another tiny squeeze of his fingers and a quiet smile just for him, and she does as he asks, eyes fluttering closed, body relaxing._

 _She fades away fast, and he sees exactly the moment she slips away from him forever. He sees it and his head bows as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, her hand still clasped in his. He is still for a moment, and then the tears start, his shoulders shaking with the physical effort as he surrenders to his grief._

…

She wakes with a start, screaming in fear and horror. It's pitch black and she hasn't a clue where she is. Thunder sounds from somewhere nearby, gets louder and louder and then there's a crash as Boyd bursts through the closed bedroom door, light from the hallway flooding in.

Floundering, Grace reaches for something, anything to root her back in the present, to give her a clue as to where she is, and then he's on the bed with her, dragging her into his chest and holding her tightly, rocking her against his body. And, face buried in his chest and hands clenched in his sweater, the tears finally come and she sobs and she sobs, the words, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," breaking through over and over and over again.

Tucked against him, incapable of seeing or hearing or doing anything, she cries herself out, all the fear and the confusion and the anger and everything else erupting from her in a storm of tears as he holds her, never letting go, and when she is done, spent and slumped against him, slumber pulls unyieldingly at her until she's drifting in dreamland once again, this time lost amongst indistinct pictures that make no sense and that she won't remember when she wakes again.

…

22:17. The numbers on the clock are blurry at first, but slowly come into focus. If they're true, she's been asleep for nearly six hours. Stretching slowly, Grace winces at overused muscles that protest heavily, at the fog in her head and the grittiness in her eyes. It's incredibly tempting to simply roll over and try and drift off again, to see the night through. Pretend the last day hasn't happened. That would be cowardly, though, and she has got to make herself face up to this. A hot shower, she decides, that will help.

Carefully, she sits up and shuffles to the edge of the bed. Takes her time standing, making sure she won't fall. She doesn't. The rest has done its work and though she's still a little weary, she feels a least somewhat human again.

The water heats and she strips off her clothes, inhaling the first wave of steam issuing from the shower. The passing glance she spares the mirror gives an image that isn't great, but it's a long, long way from the skeletal, dying woman in her nightmare.

Skin prickling uneasily, she turns away. She's had prophetic dreams before, but this wasn't one, surely?

It can't have been.

Standing under the spray, she lets the hot water run over her, closes her eyes and leans against the wall, shuddering despite the heat. How long she stands there, she has no idea, but suddenly the shower door opens and Boyd steps in. There's only just room for the two of them, and, without a word, he reaches for her, offering his hand. Grace takes it, watching hesitantly as he moves closer, but then he opens his arms and waits for her, and the fear she didn't know she was holding on to begins to fade away.

The relief of pressing herself against him, brushing her lips lightly against his chest before resting her head there, is indescribable, and she shakes almost violently as the ache in her chest finally begins to lessen.

Boyd runs a hand down the side of her neck, squeezes her shoulder briefly before carefully looping his arms around her back, head tilting down to rest against the top of hers. For a while he simply holds her, remaining absolutely still with her wrapped up in his embrace, as she curls her arms around his back and clings on, the warm water running down over them. It helps.

It helps, because to Grace it says that this, at least, hasn't changed.

…

Her shins are stinging remorselessly as she dries off, and it's no wonder, Grace supposes, when she looks at them. Her skin, made more fragile that she's accustomed to by the ordeal she's been through thus far, has been well and truly savaged by the abrasive nature of the stair carpet. There's no blood, but the top layer has been scuffed off and what's left is red and raw.

There's a tube of antiseptic cream under the sink and she makes good use of it, wincing initially at the bite as she smooths it over the damage, and then relaxing as it does its job and takes the pain away.

Drying off nearby, Boyd doesn't ask if she needs help, but he hasn't left the room, either. She's glad. Reassured by it. He doesn't say anything, but his presence is enough. She wonders if it is the same for him.

They move to the bedroom to get dressed, Boyd quickly tugging on his comfy and surprisingly attractive jogging bottoms and a loose tee-shirt that long ago washed into a soft, faded grey. He looks at her, seems like he's about to try and say something when the muffled tone of his phone ringing rises up from somewhere downstairs.

He mutters something incomprehensible, and looks over at her. "You okay?" There's no hint of anything but mild concern in those words, and Grace nods in return before he vanishes from the room.

The sudden stillness as she stands motionless is strange, and for a minute or two she just breathes, staying exactly where she is and taking in the way the room seems frozen around her. It seems bare, empty of human life. The cat isn't even trying to sneak in and nap on the bed.

Then, muffled and indistinct, she hears Boyd's voice from downstairs. He's not shouting, and though it sounds like he's wandering from room to room, it seems like he's fully engaged with whatever conversation it is he's having.

It's the shred of normality she needs to pull her back into the present.

Taking advantage of the few moments she has alone, Grace drops the towel she's still clutching around herself onto the bed and begins to take stock of the rest of her injuries.

Her knee is starting to show bruising already, and she suspects that by the morning it will be spectacularly colourful. Her wrist is still very swollen but she can just about force all normal movement if she grits her teeth, and though the rest of her body aches unpleasantly that's likely down to overexerting herself and disregarding her limits. Just another set of consequences in a long line of problems and issues that currently mark the state of her physical health. She finds she doesn't really care. It's all so relentless that she's past the point of being bothered with minor bumps and bruises.

Her skin is dry and Grace reaches for the moisturiser, slowly rubs it in circles, letting it sink in to her flesh. Memory supplies her with the warm weight of Boyd pressed against her back, or leaning into her on the bed as he performs that very service for her. It's something he's done for her since the beginning. He enjoys it, and so does she. It's not the kind of intimacy she ever imagined them sharing, but it works. As a substitute for other things when she's been so very unwell, allowing him access to her body, letting him touch her and learn how she feels has been so welcome, and so good for them both.

It's unusual, but circumstance has dictated what they can do, and when. Years of wanting each other, and then the fates aligned, as Eve put it, but only partially, keeping them from what they both so desperately want. But that exquisite tenderness that Boyd's shown her, that understanding, patience and kindness... it's a gift that still Grace is still staggered by. And left utterly guilt-ridden over, too.

It's not fair on him. How much longer can she ask him to be satisfied with her touch only? With just her lips and hands on his body on the rare nights when she feels just a bit better than others? She's never told him, but more than once she's forced herself to pleasure him, even when the nausea and the exhaustion have been near overwhelming but she's felt so, so unbelievably guilty about the way he has to help her, care for her. He's never asked her to, and it's always been her that's initiated it, but she can't deny, even to herself, that for her those encounters are rarely driven by lust.

What would he say if he knew, she wonders?

And what would he say if he knew that she knows that sometimes he leaves their bed and disappears off to the bathroom to quietly take care of himself? Or that his showers are sometimes longer for the very same reason?

It's not a conversation that she wants to have in a hurry, if ever. But it still lingers in the corners of her mind, haunting her.

Tormenting her.

Stiffly, and moving slower than normal, she dresses in soft, comfy leggings and a warm fleece sweater, finding a pair of thick socks and then reaching for a scarf. Halfway through winding it around her head she stops, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Why is she bothering, she asks herself. She's at home, and Boyd won't judge. Won't look at her any differently. She doesn't normally cover her head when she's staying inside with him. Indeed, he has a habit of walking up behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders, dropping his head to nuzzle her spiky hair before kissing the top of her head and her neck with real and very wonderful tenderness.

She believes him, too. Believes his sincerity. She could never, ever fault him for how genuine he is with her.

" _I'm not wrong in thinking that you feel pretty low about yourself right now, am I?_ " Eve's words echo in her head as she stands frozen, studying her reflection. Words, she reluctantly admits to herself, that are so very true.

It's a real dilemma, and the struggle itself is as distressing as the way she feels about how drawn and pale she looks, how ridiculous the short, spiky hair that is slowly, slowly growing back appears. She doesn't obsess like this, isn't given to letting indecision overtake her. So why _now_?

" _You're not superwoman, Grace, and you shouldn't expect yourself to be_."

Eve again. Calm, logical Eve offering the perspective she very much needed.

But…

She wants to cry, but there are no tears. Gritting her teeth, Grace unwinds the scarf. Carefully folds it and places it back in the drawer where it lives. Stares defiantly at the mirror and forces a long, steadying breath. Counts to ten, and then twenty. Thirty. Who would have thought that hair would make such a massive difference to her confidence, to the way she feels about herself, she muses.

Reaching up a shaky hand she runs her fingers through the soft, bristly spikes that might soon have begun to approach a length where she could have considered doing something with it. That's not going to happen now, and the knowledge is... painful.

Lifting the hem of her sweater, she gazes at the reflection of the surgical scars that bisect what was once soft, untouched skin. Another deep breath, and her eyes are drawn to the way the movement makes her ribs so starkly visible.

Looking down she lets her fingers run over those scars, feeling the way the skin is raised and uneven. The redness has faded a little, but not much.

Time, she tells herself. Time will let it fade even more.

 _Have I got that time? Will I live to see them become old and silvery, just faded reminders of something long ago, like Boyd's scars?_

Further down her torso, she tugs at the waistband of her leggings, stares into the mirror at the stark prominence of her hip. She used to have gentle curves there, maintained by a sensible diet and plenty of walking. Even Boyd doesn't know that before all this she used to walk miles every weekend, driving out to costal spots or areas of natural beauty to enjoy the peace and solitude of nature. Will he walk with her in the future, she wonders. Will they have the chance?

Does he know that every Tuesday she used to religiously attend the late night ladies only swim session at the local pool? Do Jane and Margaret and Helen, her changing room friends that's she gossiped with for years, miss her? Are they curious as to why she stopped going?

There's so much she doesn't know, she realises. So many things that have changed completely.

This illness… this… _cancer_ … has turned her life upside down.

She studies her hip again, runs her fingers over the prominent ridge of bone and wonders what Boyd really sees when he looks at her. He's admitted that he's fantasised about her for years, about baring the skin beneath her clothes to allow him access to her body. What does he see, and what does he feel when he looks at her now? When he sees just how bad she looks, how much weight she's lost. How the assets she still had claim to are nothing like what they used to be. Even her breasts are smaller, the weight having gone from there too.

How can he _possibly_ be genuinely attracted to her?

And what if she survives but never gets what she had back?

" _You feel so battered and bruised in yourself that you're questioning everything, that you feel like you can't trust anything."_

Squeezing her eyes shut, Grace forces herself to settle her leggings back in place and lower her sweater. Eve is right, she really does _need_ to talk to someone, not just vaguely consider the idea. Someone who is a specialist in this sort of thing. Who can help her with the damaging thoughts that spiral around and around inside her head, tormenting her, torturing her.

Trembling slightly, she forces herself to turn around before she opens her eyes. Gripping the bedpost with one hand, focusing on its heavy solidity, the way it's so immovable under her palm, she silently counts the squares of the quilt until she has a grip on herself, groups them together in patterns.

Her eyes stray to the two wet towels dropped on top of the blankets and she remembers the way Boyd came to her, the way his skin pressed warmly and tenderly against hers, his arms wrapping around her and holding on as they stood under the water, words not necessary. Reaching for the damp fabric, she catches a hint of his clean, fresh scent and smiles. He does love her, she's sure of it. If only she could show him how much she loves him back. It's all so complicated though, and right now she isn't even sure she knows how to start a conversation.

She can't avoid him forever though, can't put off whatever it is that's going to happen between them indefinitely.

Descending the stairs she listens hard, trying to pinpoint where he is. She has no idea what to say, how to act. Their world is in chaos, and everything feels as though it is tenuous, about to collapse. End.

He's in the kitchen, standing at the sink and talking to Freyja, who is sitting in the windowsill, watching him intently as he speaks. Unnoticed, Grace stands silently and observes the way he reaches out to stroke their cat, his affection for her abundantly clear.

"What am I going to do, Frey?" he asks softly, tickling her ears as the cat stretches, pushing her head into his hand, purring.

She's interrupting his moment, and so leaves as quietly as she arrived. Tiptoes into the dark, still living room and tries fight back the overwhelming despair at how brutally tired and withdrawn he looked just now. How defeated and sad.

It's all because of _her_. She's responsible for it, and Grace honestly doesn't know if she can bear to see him like that any longer. How can she let the weight of her problems continue to crush him? How can she allow herself to draw strength and love from him, when it's hurting him as well? Standing listlessly in the middle of the room, she stares at the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece and listens to it tick as it marks time passing.

It's hypnotic, entrancing. As persistent as the weakness in her body, the terrible thoughts in her head.

"Grace?"

Startled, she turns and finds Boyd in the doorway, watching her. "What are you doing?" he asks, confusion in his eyes.

She shakes her head, shrugs. "I… don't know," she admits, entirely honest. "I feel lost."

"I know the feeling."

Boyd walks forwards, his gaze never leaving her. Stopping in front of her he stands still for what seems like an eternity, eyes a dark, deep impenetrable well of… something. Eventually he frames her face with his hands, still staring down at her with an intensity that she doesn't think she can continue to endure. When he speaks, his voice is incredibly soft but there is an urgency of sorts layered in there, a frightened desperation. "I need to know something," he says, before stopping and swallowing hard.

Unsure, Grace is patient, wondering what could set him on edge so. If this is her worst nightmare come true and is the beginning of the end. She doesn't have to wait long to find out. "Are you going to give up?" he asks, and suddenly she can see just how deep the fear hidden in him runs, how hard it is straining to break free from his control.

Confused, she searches his eyes, wondering what he's really asking her. "Give up what?"

Boyd swallows again and then strokes her cheek, the pad of his thumb the lightest of pressures there. His voice is barely more than a whisper now. "Fighting."

Silence stretches out between them, eerie and uncomfortable. Hasn't she already asked herself this? Debated it, even if not truly seriously? She'd be lying if she said she hadn't, and if she said she thought it wouldn't be the easy option. No more treatment, no more visits to that awful clinic. No more side effects and fear of the unknown. Just simple acceptance of the facts and what has to be.

But is it what she really wants?

Boyd's eyes are closed now, his head tilted back a little and he looks grey and sick. Because of her.

"No."

His head snaps forward, eyes flying open. "What?"

"I'm not giving up," Grace clarifies calmly. Admits, "I don't want to die, Peter."

He looks like he's about to cry, she thinks, as his hands fall to rest on her arms and he stares at her, wordless. She waits, lets it sink in, and then settles beside him when he almost falls down onto the sofa, his relief a starkly palpable thing.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, voice shaking, and as he swings his legs up onto the cushions, twisting to stretch out along its length, she crawls into his lap and rests against his chest once more. He's warm and he smells wonderful, and his arms curve around her with love and possession and comfort.

How, she asks herself, could she ever give this up?

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Grace knows he's not talking about one specific thing.

"So am I," she replies, her sentiment the same.

Silence returns, because there's nothing that could be said which would even begin to adequately touch on the aching, painful expanse of all the things they are both feeling right now. It takes a long time for the thoughts she being wrestling with for hours to form themselves into words, and even longer for her to dare to utter them.

Stealing herself, Grace bites back the wave of steadily building fear that is threatening to swamp her. "I need to know something, too," she confesses.

"What?" Boyd doesn't stop the soothing motion of running his fingers through her hair that he seems to have been concentrating on for a while now.

"Do you want to stop?"

She can't see his face and maybe that helps, but she can picture his puzzled frown.

"Stop what?"

She takes a deep breath, tries to clamp down on the sheer terror at what his answer might be. "This. Us. Being with me."

He seems to freeze beneath her, his muscles becoming solid, hard and uncomfortable to rest against. His voice though, remains strongly level. "No."

He shifts beneath her, lifts her slightly so she's no longer curled against his and he can look at her. Grace meets his gaze, and then looks miserably down at the space between them. A gentle hand lifts her chin until her eyes find his again.

"Listen to me," he says quietly, almost urgently. "I love you, Grace. It really is that simple. It doesn't matter that you're ill, that you can't do so many of the things you want to do, that I wish you could do. I still love you and I don't want to be anywhere else."

She holds still, clinging to his words. He means them, she knows he does. Tells herself over and over that he means them, that she can see the honesty in his face, hear it in his voice.

"I love you," he repeats. "And if this is all we ever have together, then that's better than not having you in my life at all."

"Are you sure?"

Boyd gives her a simple nod, his gaze never wavering. "Yes. Positive." He sits up then, leans forward and brushes a light, long kiss against her forehead. "Somehow you need to convince yourself that it's the truth," he murmurs. "You're the only one I want, Grace."

"But it's so… " she begins, but he stops her.

"I know," he nods, fingers gentle as he runs his hand up and down her arm. "I meant it when I said forever, though. And that includes the in sickness and in health bit."

She offers him a watery eyed smile. "We're not married, Peter."

He grins, and it's a beautiful sight for her weary heart. "Yet."

They settle back down, stretching out the length of the sofa together this time, and she feels secure, loved. Safe.

Snuggling against him and tracing slow spirals across his arm, Grace can feel herself beginning to relax. "What do you mean, 'yet'?"

She can't see his face anymore, but she feels his laugh where her chest is pressed against his. It's the only answer he gives her as they fall into peaceful silence once more. Freyja appears, jumping up onto the back of the sofa and settling down there, her paws neatly tucked up beneath her.

"I guess you and I are going to be spending a lot of quality time together, missy," Grace tells her. The cat doesn't reply, just twitches her tail and yawns. Boyd tightens his arms around her briefly, an involuntary reaction, she's sure. One brought on by the stark realisation of what is lying ahead of them. Grace is trying not to think about it, any of it, but he asks and she knows he deserves an answer.

"Have you made a decision?" he sounds apprehensive.

"I want to know what you think, first," she replies, because this is something they should decide together. Whichever path she chooses, it will have significant impact on him, too.

"I think…" Boyd pauses, as if he imagines his thoughts will be unpopular with her. "I think that you should follow the doctor's advice. He's an expert in his field – he knows what he's doing."

She strokes his arm, smooths away her invisible spirals. "I agree," she tells him.

Beneath her, he starts a little, clearly surprised. "You do?"

"Yes. I don't want more surgery, Peter, I really don't. As much as I hate the idea of more chemo, and I really, _really_ do, I don't want to be cut open again, to have to stay in hospital again." Her chest feels constricted, and it's difficult to suck air into her lungs. She's quivering with the threat of her earlier panic returning, but it's not until he pulls her tighter into his body that she realises.

"Five more cycles," he mutters, and Grace feels her heart thudding in her chest.

"Will you help me?" she begs, the words sounding like a sob as they leave her lips. She's so weak, and she hates it. Despises herself for how much she needs him, how much harder she's making this for him.

Boyd's head is resting against hers, his body wrapping around her own, as if he's trying to shield her, hide her. "Of course I will," he vows. "I'm not going anywhere, Grace, I swear to you."

"I can't even…"

"I know," he soothes. "I know. We'll get through it together. One day at a time."

She stays where she is, hiding in his embrace, desperately trying to push away her dark thoughts and concentrate on his scent, his warmth, the way he's holding her, the tenderness of the moment. She can't think about what's to come, because it's too daunting, too horrible, but she can't relax, either. There's something else bothering her, something that refuses to be forced down and ignored.

"I think I need to formally take a leave of absence."

There, the words are out, lingering between them, no matter how much they hurt. Boyd is silent, and she doesn't have to see him to know that there is a storm of hurt in his eyes that he's struggling to master. When he speaks, his voice is oddly choked. "I know."

"It's for the best," she makes herself say. "That way I can concentrate on my health."

"Of course," he agrees, but the tone in which he says it…

Grace swallows, tries not to let it hurt. She fails miserably. "I don't want to," she tells him, and she can hear how, despite her best efforts, there's still a hint of something in her voice that is begging him to understand.

He finds her hand, tucked against his chest, and takes it in his. She stares at the way they join together, how seamless the connection between them appears. "It's okay," he whispers, and he's all honesty despite the pain, she knows. "I understand, I really do. I can't pretend that it doesn't hurt, because it's been you and me since the beginning and I can't stand not seeing you there, but I'd far rather you were comfortable at home and resting than tiring yourself out at work."

"It… it's sensible," she haltingly acknowledges, despite the ache in her chest. "But I can't deny I'm far from happy about it."

"I know." There's a lengthy pause, and then, "I went to see my brother today, for some…"

Boyd flounders and Grace rests her free hand on his chest beside her head, feels his heart beating strongly beneath her palm. Holds on to the rhythm of it, the steadiness there. "Perspective?" she suggests.

She feels him nod. "Yeah. He reminded me of something. We need to find a way to… bleed off some of the poison. To… make sure we stay mentally healthy."

"Smart man, your brother," she murmurs, casting her mind back once again to what she and Eve discussed.

Soft lips touch the top of her head; his nose drags through her hair. "He has his moments." There's a pause, then, "But he's right."

"He is." She pauses, contemplates what's been going through her mind for hours. Finally brings herself to make an admission. Isn't prepared for quite how difficult it is to say aloud. "I want to make an appointment with the Macmillan nurses."

He's still nuzzling her hair, doesn't stop, even as he asks a muffled, "Oh?"

"I need to talk to someone. A professional, I mean. I'm… struggling, and I... I need some help. I… it might…"

"Grace." Boyd lifts his head, interrupts her gently.

"Yeah?"

His fingers pick up where his lips left off, stroking soothingly across her scalp. "It's okay, I understand. You really don't need to justify it to me."

She freezes briefly in his arms, wonders why she thought he would protest when he's only ever had her welfare and best interests at heart. "Thank you," she murmurs, humbled by just how much he understands her.

"You're welcome," he acknowledges, returning to playing with her hair.

"So," she finally dares to ask, "What happens now?"

"Oh, Grace," he sighs, and she can hear the anxiety her question has caused in his voice. "I really don't know. I wish I did, but…"

He trails off into silence, and, she thinks, it's rather indicative. Neither of them expected this. There was the fear, of course there was, but she knows that both of them were secretly hoping, even believing, that today would be the day.

The first day of the start of the rest of their lives.

It's the biggest, most vicious kick in the teeth she's ever had. And she's honestly not sure how to dust herself down and carry on.

"I just want to know it's going to be okay," she whispers.

Boyd sighs again, heavily. "And I wish more than anything that I could tell you it will be," he replies, just as softly. She doesn't miss the break in his voice, the way his chest catches beneath her head. He's brutally honest though. Always has been. "But I can't."

His statement causes an odd, alarming tingling in her chest, a sensation that quickly spreads throughout her body. He's right, of course, and that's what's so terrifying, because the future is suddenly completely unknown.


End file.
